


Heirs and Usurpers (and wherein lies the difference?)

by GwynDuLac



Series: Stand By Me [4]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: (not in a bad way i promise), Angry Sex, Because I'm a sucker for that, Drugged Sex, F/M, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Period-Typical Homophobia, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, The Loathly Lady, good communication, sword fighting as foreplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwynDuLac/pseuds/GwynDuLac
Summary: Summer is fading into autumn, Gareth is settling into his role as Queen's Champion, and discontent is stirring in Britain.As the story begins, Lancelot and Gareth think their biggest problems are a few of the other Knights discovering their relationship, and Tristan returning to Camelot to make life interesting. It soon becomes clear, however, that something much more serious is afoot in the country, and Gareth and Lancelot will once again have to undertake a trying mission to protect the Crown.AKA the one in which Gareth and Lancelot have to pretend to hate each other for a while, and everyone in on the secret finds it hysterical.





	1. Author's Note(s)

**Author's Note:**

> A sincere thank you to everyone who reads this story, and extra love to those who the leave comments and kudos that keep me going! Welcome to part IV!
> 
> (I know it has been a couple of months since I posted the end of Part III. I needed a chance to plan this part out ,and deal with graduation plus the holidays. Now that I'm done with school I should theoretically have considerably more time to write, and I hope to make updates more frequent/regular than before. I strongly suggest hitting the "follow" button so that you get an email when I post a new chapter, it's great feature that I use liberally for the fics on here than I read.)
> 
> Enjoy the story!

(I should probably go post these on an earlier part of the story too, but for now I am putting them here.)

Before jumping into the rest of this story (which you'll noticed I've already posted a chapter of, I'm not just leaving you with an author's note), I feel the need to do a little "housekeeping" in order to clarify a couple of things and make the rest of this story a bit easier to follow (I hope). I feel I owe that to everyone who has stuck with this story for so long. (Thank you, by the way!)

First, it has been brought to my attention that there appear to be certain inconsistencies in the setting/time period of this story. This is intentional in that I consciously chose to combine key parts of two types of Arthurian literature - French romance and post-Roman - to create the setting for this story. This is why we have have knights, castles, and all the trappings of medieval England, but the Morrigan and other characters and tropes of a much earlier period make an appearance. I chose to do this for a couple of reasons. Primarily, it allowed me the most flexibility with my plot and characters; since I’m writing this story purely for my own enjoyment (and the enjoyment of a couple of people I know irl), that flexibility was more important to me than “consistency.” The second reason is that I happen to like the feeling that this setting evokes (at least for me), a combination of the light, idealistic French romance-style Arthurian tales I read when I was little, and the more realistic, darker versions I prefer now. Regardless, please just understand that the “inconsistencies” are not due to any lack of understanding of Arthurian literature on my part ; ).

Second, on the topic of inconsistencies, I will cop to the fact that the timeline has issues. I wrote Part I of this series about 5 years ago and did not plan for it to turn into anything longer than that. Post-Part I have worked to make the timeline consistent. It goes something like this: Part I _should_ have been set in the fall prior to Part II, which is set in the spring, and Part III occurs late spring and early summer; Part IV (this part) will take place at the end of the summer and into early fall; and the plan for Part V has it set around the winter holidays. After that we’ll have to see. Generally speaking, just...ignore some of the detail issues in Part I, please. Maybe someday I’ll go back and edit it to make it consistent with everything that comes after, but I have no time for that right now.

Third, I’d like to explain a little headcanon of mine which crept into this story without my noticing and is about to become somewhat more obvious. In this conception of Arthur’s Britain, there are regular knights (for some this is an inherited title and for some earned) and then there are Knights of the Round Table. The latter are much fewer in number and are specifically chosen by Arthur after they have proven themselves. Essentially, it is an order of knighthood that places them above and separate from the regular knights. Generally, you have to be a knight to become a Knight, though I’m sure there have been exceptions to that. Gareth was knighted at 18 and became part of the Round Table shortly thereafter.

Right, and now that the housekeeping is out of the way - on to the story!


	2. Chapter 1: Victors and Losers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victors and losers (and when are they one and the same?):
> 
> Gareth experiences his first tournament as Queen's Champion, and does exceptionally well. After, he and Lancelot celebrate. In the meantime, a long-absent Knight makes an unexpected appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the story begins! Just as Part I began with Lancelot and a hard bout in a tournament, so begins Part IV. Some things stay the same, some come full circle, and others change entirely...

_Oh shit._

I swore under my breath as  Gareth nearly disarmed me with a clever trick that _I_ had taught him. He was damn good at it too. I spun away and we squared up again, circling each other warily. The cheering of the crowd barely touched the edge of my awareness as I turned all of my focus and attention to the most challenging opponent I had faced all day - the most challenging I had faced in a tournament in a long time, in fact.

This was not a challenge the way Madoc had been a challenge, when I had overextended myself and underestimated him. This was challenging because Gareth was both profoundly talented and knew my style extremely well. The fact that we could sense something of each other’s thoughts was an additional difficulty as it gave each of us an intuition about the other’s movements that was downright uncanny. It made us a nearly unstoppable team, as we had been discovering in training these past weeks, but now it meant that I could not get the upper hand through either strategy or trickery. And I was getting tired.

Gareth made a feint and a lunge that would have sent a lesser swordsman sprawling ignominiously on the ground. I again spun out of the way and retaliated with quick strike that forced Gareth to step back hastily to avoid a nasty bruise. I didn’t pursue the attack, preferring to return to circling so I could finish catching my breath. Gareth allowed it, for we had both had a long day to reach this point.

My feet scuffed through the dirt as we circled and sweat rolled down my back beneath my armor. The late summer sun beat down on us, not as intense as it had been earlier in the day, but hot all the same. My first two matches had been easy, but then I had faced Bedwyr in the semi-final, and Bedwyr’s considerably greater size made him exhausting to defeat. Gareth had had it worse, fighting his way past first Lamorak (an annoying and annoyingly good knight) and then Gawain. I had been immensely proud to watch Gareth best Gawain in public, even though I knew that Gawain did not care as much as most of us did about the prestige of winning a tournament - it was one of the only reasons that I had won as many as I had, for Gawain could beat me about half the time that he actually put his mind to it.

Gareth tested my guard again and this time we exchanged a flurry of blows, moving across the field like dancers, perfectly and beautifully in sync. I found myself smiling as the sound of sword-on-sword rang out. Gareth was doing the same, enjoying how _good_ this felt, in spite of the heat and sweat and tiredness. Sparring with Gareth was always fun, and this was really just a sparring match with a large audience a great deal of prestige riding on it.

Gareth had been bloody impressive all day, surprising and slowly winning over the crowd. He usually offered to stand in the honor guard in the royal box rather than fight since it was always a challenge to find knights who would sit out tournaments in order to take that duty. But now that Gareth was Queen’s Champion he had been given no choice but to participate. So here we were, circling each other, King’s Champion versus Queen’s Champion, mentor and protege. The bards and minstrels were going to have a hayday with this if I was any judge.

I was still, somewhat to my surprise, rather popular in these tournaments, especially among the common people who came to watch. But I could hear at least equal cheers for Gareth, which he certainly deserved. At least, I mused as we circled and struck in an intricate dance, my arms growing heavier and heavier with each passing minute, I could accept losing to Gareth.

But I was stubborn, and he was tired as well, and by sheer dint of talent neither of us could quite gain the upper hand. It was a bit like our sparring match at my villa earlier in the summer; the fight dragged on and on as the sun sank lower in the sky, and the crowd began to grow vaguely restless.

*  *  *  *

It was dawning on me slowly that I might just be able to win this fight. I could see (and sense) how exhausted Lancelot was. He was still capable of putting up a good fight, and I was tired as well, but I was fairly confident that I could manage to simply _not lose_ long enough to wear him down and win. It was surprisingly tempting. I had never had much interest in tournaments, did not care to spend a day proving my skill to all and sundry, but now that I was here I could see what drove men like Lancelot and Tristan to keep coming back time and again - winning time and again. And yet...

And yet. Lancelot was still my mentor in many ways, and I would _always_ look up to him. I did not particularly _want_ to beat him - at least not here, not now, with half of Camelot watching and some portion of his reputation resting on it. So in a lull in our fighting, I stepped back and lowered my sword slightly. He paused, watching curiously even as he remained ready to counter an attack should I launch one. Decisively, I flipped my blade around and stuck it point down in the ground, then fell to one knee, head bowed slightly. “I yield.” It was an odd parallel to something I had once seen Lance do with Arthur, but I was too tired to reflect closely on that just then.

My words came out breathless, but loud enough to carry somewhat, loud enough to reach the Royal Box where Arthur, Guinevere, and sundry others were watching. Everyone else understood the gesture well enough though, and, after a brief, stunned pause, applause erupted from the crowd, rolling across the twilit field. Lancelot stared at me, and I looked back up at him, taking the moment to admire how his cheeks were flushed with exertion and his eyes bright from the fight. Even with his hair plastered to his head beneath his helmet, dust coating his armor and clothing, and exhaustion in every line of his body, he was beautiful, and I smiled up at him, letting our bond communicate my gentle awe that he was _mine_. Slowly, Lancelot smiled back, then he stepped forward and pulled me to my feet - and into a hug. We were usually very careful to avoid any sort of display of affection in public, lest someone realize that we were rather more than just mentor-and-protege. But in this moment it was entirely believable and acceptable for him to hug me and it felt bloody amazing.

We broke apart after a moment, and walked slowly toward the Royal Box where Arthur stood to congratulate us both on an “exceptionally well-fought and impressive” bout. He gave Lancelot the winner’s prize and me a small purse as the runner up. I resisted the urge to weigh it in my palm as I bowed and thanked him formally. I actually preferred the money to the ornate dagger which Lancelot had just acquired.

With the tournament officially over, members of the Court flooded up to the castle for the feast. Lancelot and I shared a weary glance and trudged back to the competitors tents to change our of our armor and into something approximating appropriate dress for the remainder of the evening’s festivities.  We detoured by mine so I could retrieve my bags, then both went to Lancelot’s tent, taking advantage of the deserted grounds.

Once we were inside and away from prying eyes I caught Lancelot’s hands and leaned up to give him a kiss. We both tasted of sweat and dust, but it was lovely all the same. When we broke apart, my lover stretched and groaned quietly. I ached all over from a hard day of fighting, so I could only imagine how Lancelot felt. Granted, barring a few throbbing bruises, it wasn’t a bad ache, it was the feeling of a good hard workout. I kissed him again, impulsively, then reached for the buckles on his armor.

“You don’t need-”

“I want to,” I said, hushing him gently.

As his squire, I had once helped Lancelot into and out of his armor frequently. It was something I had always taken a certain enjoyment in, at first because I liked doing something concretely useful, and later because it meant I got to be close to him, got to touch him. Now that we were lovers, carefully removing each piece of his armor felt distinctly intimate, and, overlaid with my memories of my time has his squire, it made me warm and calm inside; my world narrowed to just this, though my veins still hummed with the thrill of the fight.

“Thank you,” murmured Lancelot when I set aside the last of his armor, but when I reached for the laces on his doublet he caught up my hands. “No, let me help you first.”

I acquiesced quietly and thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of him playing squire to me for a few minutes. Desire was building between us, slowly but inexorably and it made me smile. The quiet that prevailed in the tent was misleading, belied by the tension crackling between us. We both knew where this was going and the only rush to get there was that we were expected at the feast in the near future.  

With our armor piled into its trunks to be cleaned tomorrow by whatever hapless page or squire was assigned the duty, Lance slid his hands under my shirt and stripped it over my head. We were both sweat-soaked, which should have been off-putting, but I didn’t think I could ever find Lance off-putting. I returned the favor, then rose up on my toes and kissed him again, rougher this time, fingers tangling in his hair to keep his head still, using the grip for balance as my tired legs protested being asked to work even this hard. Lancelot’s hands caught at my hips and pulled me closer, then moved to grip my back instead. The energy between us shifted and built, the kiss sliding from pleasantly rough into a fight for dominance as our subconsciouses recalled that we _had_ been properly fighting less than 20 minutes before.

Both Lancelot and I had escaped with no more than bruises and a few shallow cuts - the sort of severe injury he had suffered against Madoc was in fact exceedingly rare - and the dull ache in my bones receded from my mind as my body reacted to Lancelot’s nearness, his smell, and the always-wonderful feeling of his strong arms around me. We disengaged from the kiss long enough to breathe, and on a whim I turned my head and bit his collarbone. Lancelot positively whimpered, and I felt him go a little weak. I examined the emotions running through us both for a moment, then decided to try something.

“I could have won today,” I growled in his ear, using a tone of voice that I knew Lance liked, though I rarely employed it. His cock twitched against my stomach.

“And yet you didn’t - I did,” he countered, somewhat shakily, but it was a good kind of shaky; there was no indication that he wasn’t enjoying this, so I continued with what I had planned.

“Mm yes and I rather think you owe me for that,” I informed him, shifting my hands to his shoulders and pressed hard. I wanted him on his knees in front of me and he knew it.

After a brief battle of wills, his knees folded and he sank down with a breathy, “Fuck…”

I stood there for a moment, chest heaving, body singing with pleasure at this sudden reversal of positions. I had knelt to him on the field (and done so happily) and now he acquiesced to kneeling to me here. I wanted his mouth on me, and he wanted it too; but when I reached for the laces on my breeches, Lancelot heaved a sigh and leaned his head against my thigh, passion fading abruptly. “Not...I’m sorry, Gareth, but not here. We’re too exposed here…”

He was right, _dammit_. I gritted my teeth, annoyed that we couldn’t have our moment for fear of discovery, but then pushed away the feeling. It wasn’t fair to Lance to get upset about this. “I understand,” I said, because I did. In reality, I was more vulnerable to discovery than Lancelot in that without my place here in Camelot I had nothing. But Lancelot was terribly proud, and his close friendship with Arthur could cause problems for the King if it was widely known that Lancelot preferred the company of men. I sighed and ran my hand through his hair comfortingly, sensing his distress that he couldn’t give me what I wanted right now. The thick black locks slid through my fingers and I watched the play of light over the occasional silver strand.  Then I offered him a hand up, which he took gratefully.

*  *  *  *

There was a bowl of clear, cool water on a low table, and cloths to wash with. I kicked off my boots and breeches while Gareth did the same, then picked up one of the clothes and wetted it. Gareth reached for one as well but I caught his wrist and murmured, “Let me.” He did, accepting my silent apology for putting an abrupt end to our fun. It was calming to run the cloth over his body, wiping away sweat and dust and a few traces of blood. We would bathe properly later or in the morning, but for now this was the best we had the time or energy for. I tossed aside the now-dirty cloth and picked up a clean one, standing in front of Gareth to gently clean his face. He smiled sweetly at me, thinking something about how no one had wiped his face off like this since he was a child still living with his parents. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and giggled. He most certainly did _not_ see me as a parental figure, but did find the parallel vaguely amusing at the moment - he liked me caring for him, and I liked doing so.

“A Knight taking care of a squire. What would people think?” he teased me gently.

“You have not been a squire for a good long time,” I retorted, bopping him playfully on the nose. He made an adorable face and now it was my turn to laugh.

“Okay okay,” he consented, swiping the cloth from me, “But now now you’re going to let me help you clean up.”

I did not argue, and once we were both somewhat clean we took turns dunking our heads in the bowl of water to rinse grime and sweat from our hair. I shook myself afterward, water droplets flying, and Gareth laughed at me lightly. The mood between us shifted from tender to playful and I flicked water back at him.

Exhaustion from the day was beginning to sink into my bones, but it was a good sort of tired, the kind that came from hours of hard, honest work. I stretched again, feeling my shoulders pop, then stepped into a clean pair of breeches - but I stopped Gareth from doing the same.

“Come here,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around him from behind, then sliding one hand lower to rest on his lower belly, tantalizingly close to where he wanted it.

“I thought you didn’t want to do this here…”

“There are limits to what I will do in a tent where anyone can walk in,” I agreed, speaking directly into his ear so I could keep my voice low, doubting anyone was around beyond the canvas walls around, but cautious nonetheless, “But this I will do for you because I want to.”

“Not fair to you,” he whimpered as my hand closed around his half-hard cock. I was hardly a sentence, but I understood what he meant.

“I can wait until later. And later I will give you what you want.” It was a promise, and brought him to full hardness in a few heartbeats. We both had a thing for me on my knees, I could admit that - privately.

I brought him off hard and quick, holding him firmly against my chest to let him feel all my strength the way he liked. Afterward, we paused long enough for a thorough kiss, then dressed quickly, strapped on our swords and daggers, and set out for the Great Hall and the promise of food.

We made quite the stir when we entered, Cei ushering us in through the main doors despite my quiet protests. As we walked up to the dais at the front of the room, conversation stopped, and, gradually, a cheer went up, the Court paying homage to both Gareth and I for our display of skill earlier. I knew we cut a dashing pair as well. Gareth wore grey suede breeches and a similarly colored silk shirt under a find black doublet. Arthur’s Dragon was emblazoned on the left breast in silver. I wore a more refined, more elegant version of my usual black leathers; the quality was finer and it was edged with wide ribbon, heavily embroidered with an intricate interlocking design of my device and Arthur’s. It was Guinevere’s needlework, and I wore it proudly. Gareth and I both sported the signature red cloaks of the Round Table, his edged in grey and mine in black, setting us apart from the rest of the Knights because of our place as royal Champions.

I couldn’t resist puffing up a little with the emotion that filled my chest; after all these years I still swelled with pride at wearing my liege’s colors and fighting in his name. Beside me, Gareth was almost shaking with similar emotions. This was a new experience for him since he rarely fought in tournaments, and had never before fought as Queen’s Champion.

We took our places at the High Table - silently lamenting the fact that I sat on one side of the royal couple and he on the other - and the cheering subsided. The King said a few words, and the feast began in earnest, pages, squires, and various kitchen helpers bringing out heaping trays of all sorts of food. I dug in gratefully, letting the noise of conversation flow around me without really touching me. I was far too tired to pay much attention to it. Eventually, however, a touch on my arm roused me from my stupor. I turned a little in my seat and found myself staring into Arthur’s very blue, smiling eyes. “Hi,” I said giddily, feeling momentarily like my teenage self again, head-over-heels with the charming bastard-born prince.

“Hi,” the King replied, eyes laughing at me silently. He knew me well enough to see at least some of what was going through my head, and also probably found it amusing that I was so much less collected than usual. “You fought exceptionally well today, as did Gareth. You’ve trained him well and you both do Guinevere and I proud.” The words were genuine if a little formal, and I found myself flushing with pleasure.

I smiled at him. “It’s always a pleasure and an honor.”

*  *  *  *

Whatever Lancelot and the King were talking about, it sent warm emotion curling through my lover’s body. He was tired enough to have let his guard down a little, to be a little less controlled than usual, and it just made it that much easier to sense his emotions. I couldn’t wait to get him alone, and only hoped that he would have the energy to continue our earlier game. I was tired as well, but I could feel the food perking me up again and avoided the strong wine that I knew would put me to sleep if I wasn’t careful. I was pulled from my thoughts when the Queen turned to me and said, “I’m sure you don't need to be told this, but you did very, very well today. And, at risk of sounding patronizing, I’m very proud that you’re my Champion.”

“That’s...not patronizing at all, Majesty; it’s an honor to be your Champion.”

We shared a smile, then Guinevere laughed lightly and said, “Alright, let’s talk about less serious things.”

I agreed. “Did you have anything in mind?”

“Several things, but probably none appropriate to his location, in spite of the fact that our husbands are currently making eyes at each other…”

I choked on my sip of ale and had to spend several moments collecting myself before managing to gasp out, “We’re not - I mean technically…”

“Yes, and it’s really too bad,” agreed the Queen, “But nevertheless, the word seemed to fit. Anyhow, I was wondering if-” but I never got to find out what she was wondering about, for just then the doors opened and a herald announced the arrival of Sir Tristan. A ripple went through the room, and the King immediately focused on the newcomer.

It had been over a year since Tristan had been in Camelot, so his sudden arrival was noteworthy indeed. Guinevere and I shared a glance and shrugged; neither of us had been expecting him, nor did we know what had prompted his return from his adventures. When Tristan had last been in Camelot, he had fallen deeply in love with a woman who had unexpectedly killed herself. It was one in a long line of Tristan’s incredibly unfortunate encounters with love, and had driven him to leave with little warning, disappearing into the wilds of his native Cornwall to seek adventure (and, perhaps, solace of a sort).

Tristan came forward and bowed low before the High Table, ever the perfect courtier. “I do apologize for the intrusion into your meal, Your Majesties; I had hoped to arrive in time for today’s tournament, but was delayed.”

The King, who had never held with stilted Courtly habits, stood and hurried around the table to welcome the Knight home warmly. Soon, there were calls for Tristan to regain us all with tales of his adventures, but Arthur, perhaps seeing something in Tristan’s eyes, firmly told the room to let the newcome be so he could eat and rest. “The Round Table will meet tomorrow to hear his official account and _after_ that you can all harass him.”

That was the highpoint of dinner. Tristan was sat between Cei and Bedwyr, who rapidly caught him upon the events of the day. The disturbance caused by Tristan’s arrival soon allowed Lancelot and I to slip away with minimal fuss. Walking back up to our rooms, however, I noticed that Lance was quiet, his thoughts weighing on him rather heavily. Sensing my question, he said slowly, “I’m glad Tristan’s back - I always miss his company. He just looked...so tired. And...I don’t know…”

“He travelled all day, probably much longer, and Tristan has never had an easy time at Court; there’s a reason he’s gone so often.”

“True,” agreed my lover, dredging up a smile for me.

“Now,” I said airily, aiming to recapture our earlier mood, “Stop thinking about him and think about _me._ ”

Lancelot laughed at that and I felt his spirits begin to lift. “Alright, I’ll do as I’m told.”

“Yes, you will!” I replied, keeping my voice light but letting my real intention flow along our bond. Lancelot shuddered subtly. Submission was usually more my preference than his, but tonight appeared to be one of the occasional exceptions to that, which pleased me immensely.

Anticipation curled in my gut as we approached our rooms and I wondered if Lance felt the same - after all, I’d gotten off earlier and he hadn’t. I tentatively reached out along our bond, an act which was gradually becoming as natural as drawing a sword (a little clumsy at first but soon smooth and easy). Useful too. I could always feel Lance in my head and in my chest, but when I focused, those amorphous feelings sharpened and I could nearly sense his thoughts. We had practiced when lying in bed together, and skin-to-skin contact certainly strengthened the connection, but I was curious what I could do while we walked along the hallways, very much _not_ touching.  Lancelot was, predictably, looking forward to this as much as I was, but it was tinged with _curious-nervous-calm_ because he was relinquishing control to me; he trusted me enough to want to do that and enjoy the curiousness and nervousness that came with not knowing exactly what I was going to do. It made my heart stutter with emotion and it took a great deal of self-control not to tell him then and there how much I loved him. Instead, I pushed the thought at him and knew he understood when he stumbled a little and warmth spread along our bond. I got a subtle but distinct sense of the sentiment being returned, and then we were at the doors to the Royal Suite.

The guards always stationed there opened them with polite nods, and we entered the common room. This place, with no guards and only a handful of very trusted servants, was a haven. But even better was the room I shared with Lancelot. It was not his original room where we had first slept together. Once I became Queen’s Champion and was living in the royal suite as well, Lancelot and I had decided (and Guinevere had insisted) he (we) needed a nicer place. So the part of the suite that ‘should’ have been mine because _ours_ and the small room that had been Lancelot’s became ‘mine’ and used for storage.

The room we shared now was spacious and contained a large, curtained bed, a fireplace with a chair and a couch near it, and a desk pushed into one corner for the occasions when one or the other of us needed to write a letter or look over a document. There were also chests of clothes, a couple small tables, and a washstand. On one wall hung a tapestry that had been a gift from Elaine, a thick carpet covering most of the stone floor. All in all, it was a homey, comfortably place, simple by the standards of someone of Lancelot’s rank, but larger than house I was born in.

As soon as we had closed the door behind us, Lancelot grabbed my wrist gently and pulled me into a kiss. I allowed it for a moment, then stepped back, putting one hand on his chest firmly. “No, you owe me something else that you started earlier.” He flushed a little and began to undo the clasps on his doublet, but I stopped him. “Oh no, leave it on. All of it.” I watched with a sense of deep satisfaction as my lover blushed more deeply, but immediately dropped his hands to his sides obediently. I left him standing there and began to undress myself, letting him watch - making him watch. I could feel in a secondary sort of way the desire curling in his gut, an echo of my own, and I loved knowing that I was the one causing it.

Only when I was completely undressed and my formalwear was folded neatly on the trunk at the foot of the bed did I return to stand in front of him and raise a pointed eyebrow. “Well?” The rest went unspoken, but Lancelot understood. My breath caught in my throat as he sank to his knees, eyes locked with mine all the while. We both knew what was going on here, and we were both enjoying it. Lancelot was a proud man, and making him do this for me while still high on his victory and dressed in all of his finery was at odds with that pride in a way that, with me at least, he could enjoy. _I_ was certainly enjoying the image before me, absurd and perfect as it was. King Arthur’s greatest Knight on his knees for my pleasure. I took a couple of shaky breaths in an effort to regain my composure so that our little game didn’t end prematurely.

That composure disappeared as soon as my lover leaned forward, placed his hands on my hips, and took me into his mouth. The truth was that Lance was _good_ at this. I’d never asked where he had learned because I was fairly sure I didn’t want to know, but I was more than happy to enjoy the result. I tangled my fingers in his thick hair to help keep my balance and leaned forward slightly changing the angle. He let it happen, moaning a little, enjoying having his control taken away like this. That fact just made it better, and my desire spiked.

With a great deal of self-control, I managed to stave off my orgasm for several long minutes so I could thoroughly enjoy both the sensations and the image before me. I warned Lancelot before I came, but he just leaned in and sucked harder, swallowing down the result even though I knew damn well he did not much appreciate the taste. I nearly collapsed as my knees went to jelly with pleasure, and only saved myself by leaning heavily on Lance’s shoulders. He took my weight unwaveringly, but when I actually looked at him I saw that his eyes were glazed in a way I associated with the rare occasions when he let himself sink into the submissive role. I knew the feeling well, and could sense his contentment and the haziness in his mind, and it made me smile. This was what I had hoped to accomplish tonight, and was pleased to see that I had done so - thoroughly.

*  *  *  *

Gareth’s hands stroked my hair gently as he murmured his thank yous and told me how good I was for him. In another situation it would have sounded patronizing, but for now I soaked it up, smiling with the knowledge that I had made him happy. After a short time, however, he said, “I need you to stand up so you can get undressed and we can go to bed.” I made a face, not wanting to deal with so many words strung together all at once. I felt a brief pulse of amusement from Gareth, almost drowned out by his affection for and protectiveness of me. He tried again. “Lance, stand up for me.” I did, my knees protesting a bit and my muscles reminding me that I had fought in a tournament earlier in the day. Perhaps normally I would have been embarrassed that it took me two tries and leaning heavily on Gareth’s arms to get to me feet, but just then I did not care. “Good,” said Gareth warmly once I was standing, “Now let’s get you undressed.” I stood placidly while he deftly undid the fasteners on my doublet and unlaced my shirt, then helped me pull both over my head.

I shook myself out of my stupor just enough to help with my boots and breeches, and follow his instruction to go lie face down on the bed. Once there I pushed aside my vague discomfort at being in such a vulnerable position, and sank back into the comfortable haze, trusting Gareth unquestioningly.

I squirmed a little, rolling my hips against the bed. Gareth had gotten off twice now and I had not. I wondered distantly what Gareth had in mind, since I doubted even he could get hard again quickly enough to fuck me. I got my answer soon enough, when I felt my lover climb onto the bed, and a moment later his hand skimmed over my lower back and ass, oil-slick fingers slipping into the crevice tease. I may have whimpered with want, but in the moment did not care and would never admit to it later. Soon enough, though, one of Gareth’s fingers pressed slowly inside, making me squirm more at the sensation. It was uncomfortable in a the best sort of way, with the promise of pleasure hovering at the edges of the feeling.

Gareth took his own sweet time working a second finger into me. Once he had done so, he unerringly found that place inside that made me see sparks and worried at it incessantly until I was gasping and writhing in pleasure. The world receded until he was the only thing in it that existed and I felt like I was floating. Gareth leaned over me, his free hand wrapping around my cock, and murmured in my ear, “Come for me, love.” I did, hard and abruptly, muscles locking tight for long moments before I relaxed into a post-coital puddle on top of the blankets too pleased and relaxed to even consider moving. Gareth disappeared briefly, then came back with cloth to clean us both up. He didn’t even attempt to make me stir enough to climb under the covers, instead fetching a heavy blanket from one of our trunks and wrapping us both up in it. Then he gathered me gently into his arms so that I lay with my head pillowed on his chest and our legs entwined, and we both fell deeply asleep.

 

We woke early the next morning since we had in fact gone to sleep rather early the night before. Even before I moved I could tell that my muscles were sore from the tournament the day before, but it was a good sort of sore so I didn’t mind. I sighed happily, noting that Gareth and I had shifted around during the night so that we both lay on our sides with Gareth in the curve of my body, his back to my chest. I twined our fingers together and kissed his hair. “Thank you for last night. And, if I didn’t say it yesterday, congratulations on doing so well in your first tournament. You are truly one of the greatest swordsmen of an age, and I am immensely proud of you - for that and more.” It was an uncharacteristically long and emotional speech for me, but Gareth didn’t comment, merely smiling and squeezing my hand.

“Thank you.” The words were simply but I felt the emotion that came with them and it was overwhelming. There was no need for further conversation after that, Gareth able to sense my feelings on the matter as clearly as I could sense his.

I shifted onto my back and stretched, enjoying the sensation of overworked muscles while carefully cataloguing the twinges from various bruises I had acquired. Gareth rolled to lay face down and sighed happily. After a few moments of companionable silence, I said, “There will be a meeting of the Round Table this morning for Tristan to make his report.”

“Mm,” hummed Gareth in agreement, then, “I hope you know that I have no intention of getting up until necessary for that, right?”

I laughed, my heart light. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to get another chapter up in the next week or so (no promises; it's still the holiday season and thus busy). Kudos and comments make me write faster. 
> 
> Happy holidays!


	3. Chapter 2: Friends and Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Friends and Enemies (and something more?): 
> 
> As stirrings of discontent are brought to the attention of the King, and an unwelcome guest arrives in Camelot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully with the holidays over (and no classes) I will do better about posting more regularly, but no promises. This chapter in particular was something of a bitch to write, but I have the next couple of chapters planned (sort of) so fingers crossed that things will go more smoothly. 
> 
> This chapter is mostly just setting up the plot that will develop from here, so I'm sorry if it is not quite as fast-paced or entertaining. Unfortunately, it was very necessary.

Full, proper meetings of the Round Table occurred every couple of weeks in the absence of any emergency, crisis, or other situation which led the King to need or want the advice and support of the approximately two dozen most loyal and dedicated of his knights. In the past, it had met somewhat more frequently, but Arthur's reign was secure and we were not at war. After the drama surrounding Guinevere's abduction earlier in the year, most of the Round Table had returned to Camelot, and Tristan's unexpected arrival was an unusually happy reason to gather. Therefore, when we all sat down after breakfast, the mood In the room was light, everyone talking and laughing. Tristan too seemed to be in high spirits, so I liked to think that my assessment of the night before was correct and Tristan had only looked downcast because he was tired.

We all took our habitual seats (as there were no assigned places), Lancelot and I naturally sitting beside each other. As a few trusted servants began serving the food, Tristan gestured between Lance and I and asked, smiling , “So, how long has this been going on?" l felt Lance's sudden dread, and my face must have shown some displeasure, for Tristan immediately corrected himself with a laugh and a self-deprecating, "Never mind." Gawain hid a snicker behind his hand while Arthur, also smiling knowingly, helped diffuse the situation by intentionally misunderstanding Tristan's observation.

“Ah yes, I suppose you likely would not have heard on your travels - Gareth is now Queen’s Champion”

"I see," Tristan replied, casting me a look which said he was not just responding to the news of my new  
title. I resisted the urge to stick out my tongue at him. Tristan always had been a bad influence on me.

Arthur carefully re-directed the conversation by reminding everyone why we were there, and I watched Tristan sigh quietly before launching into his tale.

The telling of Tristan’s recent adventures took the entirety of the morning, even though he told the plain, unadorned version with a focus on information that would be useful to the King, rather than the more eloquent tales of chivalry and adventure which he would undoubtedly spin for the Court.

He had left Camelot early in the spring a year and a half earlier, riding straight for Cornwall. Once there, he travelled throughout the summer, encountering a few bandits and happening upon no less than half a dozen villages who had been targeted by raiders - either Saxon or Irish, or in one notable case, both. “I think the raids are growing more frequent again,” Tristan observed, going on to explain that he suspected it was because his uncle, King Mark, was doing a poor job of keeping up his army. Tristan had spent a fair amount trying to rectify that, but when he failed to convince Mark he had then spent the fall training the militias in areas that that had experienced high levels of raids. The King thanked him for that, but Tristan merely shrugged and said, “It won’t do them much good, but at least they feel less helpless and stand a chance of minimizing the damage.” He had spent the winter at his own estate, which was in poor repair after his years of absence, and while there heard tales of various other hardships visited on the land by a ruler who was increasingly out of touch. “People think he’s senile,” said Tristan slowly, “But I think there’s more to it than that. Or less, as the case may be. He’s never been terribly interested in running a country, and I think he has simply lost what little interest he once had. He’d rather enjoy his food and drink, warm and snug in his castle.” The problem with this, aside from lax military discipline and increased raids, was two-fold. First, his own nobles were getting antsy, with incidents of infighting increasing substantially. Second, the lords on his borders were beginning to edge into Mark’s lands.

Arthur listened thoughtfully to all of this and more, and when Tristan was done the King promised to see what he could do to address some of the issues. After all, Mark and his neighbors were all client-kings of Arthur, but were far-flung enough to seemingly forget that fact on occasion. Tristan thanked the King, and the meeting began to break up, but as everyone else left to seek out lunch, he came over and said lowly, “There is one other thing, Sire, though I’d rather discuss it in private.”

“How private?” enquired Arthur, glancing pointedly at Lance and I.

“I think it would be best to include Gawain, Lancelot, and Gareth - Cei as well if he is free. It’s nothing terribly urgent, I don’t think, just some things you should be aware of that I think it is better not to... _concern_ the others with unduly.”

Arthur hummed seriously, then said, “Come, we’ll have lunch in my study and discuss it now.”

A page was sent to fetch Cei, and another to ask for lunch to be sent up to the King’s study, and we all gathered in the comfortable room, sprawling on much-worn chairs.  Cei was the last to arrive, coming in the door just as the lunch trays appeared courtesy of a pair of servants. “So,” he asked, throwing himself into the remaining empty seat and catching up a glass of wine simultaneously, “What was it that Tristan didn’t want to share with the others?”

“It’s mostly that I didn’t want the others to worry unnecessarily,” explained Tristan, “When I was travelling I heard more rumblings of discontent than usual, enough so that it struck me and I think we should keep an eye on it.”

“Discontent?” asked Lancelot.

“People are unhappy about the taxes - and not just the standard complaints. There was a theme that I heard running through everything. A number of lords and even some common folk all said essentially the same thing to me: now that the wars are over the taxes should be going down. They all used the same phrases and examples, which means that someone is spreading this idea around. Hopefully it’s just word of mouth working on people who are largely untroubled and therefore looking for things to complain about. But...I do think we should be cautious of it.”

The King sighed, “Why do people always fail to understand that maintaining an army is expensive, and without an army we open ourselves to a Saxon attack? _Especially_ since it’s been long enough since Badon that their numbers are beginning to recover?” We all winced a little at the reminder of that brutal battle where we had finally put paid to the Saxon threat for a while.

Arthur thanked Tristan for bringing it to our attention before addressing Cei and Lancelot. “I know you each have your networks of informants of various sorts. I’d appreciate it if you could reach out and see if a similar message is circulating elsewhere in the country. Hopefully it is just a localized rumbling from some overly-opinionated lord or minstrel, but it pays to be cautious.”

I could sense Lancelot’s disquiet at this news from Tristan, and did not need a bond with the others to observe that they were tense and unhappy. I was briefly confused as to why such vague and seemingly minor issues would cause such a reaction, but quickly recalled to myself that everyone in the room but I had been present during the early years of Arthur’s reign when they had put down several major uprisings, including one explicitly because he had levied taxes on the Church. There were years of civil war as he established himself as High King, and it was natural that they remained concerned. It was a little hard for me to fathom because I had more or less grown up in Arthur’s Britain, too young to remember hardly anything of Uther’s reign. Arthur was the only High King I had ever known so the thought of a serious challenge to his rule was absurd to me. But that did not mean that it couldn’t happen. And, as Arthur had said, it paid to be cautious with these sort of things.

We dispersed shortly thereafter. Arthur was holding public audiences that afternoon, which entailed Cei and Lancelot attending him. Gawain often sat in as well, preparing for when he would someday be king. Nobles had a certain amount of access to the King, and the ability to request an audience for matters they wished him to address, so these public audiences were for those who were not noble, but wished to raise a complaint or concern. They were often boring in the extreme, though I respected Arthur greatly for taking the time and care to hear his subjects and try to help them when he could.

Guinevere held audiences of her own, informal sessions in her solar for problems better addressed to a woman, and she had slightly more free time than Arthur to devote to audience sessions, making her a bit more accessible. As her Champion, I attended those audiences, and sometimes found them rather fascinating. It was clear that the King and Queen were fine partners in politics as well as in love, and were perfectly matched intellectually. It was rather beautiful, actually.

On this particular, afternoon, however, we the Queen was having a private but very important meeting with Lynette, who had recently returned from a visit to Lyonesse. I, naturally, attended, though I wished I did not have to be separated from Lancelot when he was clearly so unsettled by Tristan’s news.

Lancelot and I had missed most of the aftermath of our rescue mission to Lyonesse, but had later learned in broad strokes what had happened. The sorcerer or whomever had hired him had killed Lynette’s father, leaving just Lynette and her twin sister. Arthur’s politicking with the Saxons meant that Lyonesse was no longer bound by its commitments to them, and Lynette had immediately decided to ally her country with Arthur instead, but there had been a fair amount details to sort out in order for that to happen. For one thing, Lynette had to actually take the crown, which was complicated by the fact that there had never been female inheritance in Lyonesse, but there also wasn’t any law against it. So that had taken a few weeks to resolve, and then the treaty had to be drawn up. Lyonesse was now a client state, just as most of the smaller kingdoms of Britain were, and Lynette was its queen. Following all of that, Lynette had spent the last month or so in Lyonesse, establishing her rule. And now she had returned to Camelot to consult with Guinevere and Arthur.

When I arrived at Arthur’s study, which we were borrowing for the afternoon, Gawain was hovering outside the door. “Are you joining us, Gawain?" I asked. When he nodded, I opened the door and gestured him through ahead of me. I was confused when he hesitated for a moment before entering. Inside we found Guinevere and lunch waiting for us.

"Lynette will be here soon," the Queen informed us as we took our seats, and, sure enough, the Princess in question arrived momentarily.

“Hello, hope I didn't keep you waiting-oh, Gawain, I assumed you'd be at audiences."

Gawain stammered uncharacteristically for a moment before managing somewhat weakly, "I, umm...wanted to be here. If you don't mind?"

“Oh, not at all, just curious."

There was a great deal to talk about, so the three of them got down to business while I sat near Guinevere and offered occasional input when it was asked for. The conversation tended toward how to feed people given that only about half the fields had been planted that spring, followed by a discussion of how to safely rebuild Lyonesse's decimated military capacity. At minimum they needed functional royal guards, and they were more or less starting from scratch since all those dating from before the sorcerer’s reign had either fled or been killed.

I was of limited use during most of this, as the topics lay somewhat outside my areas of expertise, so I occupied myself by watching Gawain. By the time the meeting ended late in the afternoon, I had come to the conclusion that my friend was hopelessly in love with Lynette. I had already known that he very much liked her (that had been clear almost as soon as they met), but given his sudden shyness I realized that it was much more than that. What I failed to ascertain, however, was whether on not Lynette was as oblivious to this development as she appeared to be.

At the conclusion of the meeting, Gawain and Lynette both excused themselves - Lynette to change for dinner and Gawain to see if his uncle was still holding audiences - and I was tempted to get Guinevere's opinion on the matter of Gawain’s infatuation. But before I could, a frantic looking page appeared, sent by the King to urgently request our presence in the Great Hall. Guinevere and I exchanged a look, and set off at a near run. Urgent summons of this nature generally did not bode well.

It was clear as soon as we entered the room that a guest of high status had arrived with a full retinue-including guards. I took up my position by the Queen's left shoulder as she swept elegantly across the dais to join her husband, and as we walked my eyes sought out the device these newcomers wore. It took me a moment to recognize it for it had not been seen in Camelot in years, but when I did, I understood what the fuss was about. An unannounced visit by Ambrosius Aurelianus could not bode well.

Arthur had a relatively small extended family by royal standards. He was, of course, related to the Orkneys on his mother's side, but his father had a single half brother, and that brother had had a single son - Arthur's cousin, Ambrosius. The family, with it's claim to descent from Roman nobility, still styled itself in a Roman manner, and complained simultaneously about Arthur being too emperor-like, and about Arthur not doing enough to maintain the vestiges of Roman influence. (The latter was particularly absurd  
since Arthur had spent most of his reign working to rebuild the network of Roman roads, led  
a military that closely mirrored Rome's in organization, and had managed to re-open trade  
routes that had been closed since Rome's fall.

The real trouble with Ambrosius was his interest in taking the throne for himself. Upon Uther's death, Ambrosius had tried to lay claim to the High Kingship, and had briefly fought Arthur for it. Since then, Arthur had suspected his cousin of fomenting rebellion, conspiring with his enemies (including the Saxons), or otherwise plotting his downfall on at least three separate occasions that I was aware of - and probably several others that I was not. I had earned my knighthood helping Lancelot foil one such attempt. Therefore, his sudden arrival in person in Camelot was an extremely unpleasant surprise. In fact, now that I thought about it, I was fairly sure I had felt the emotional backwash of the moment that Lance had first recognized the man a few minutes earlier. I made a mental note to pay more heed to such things, then turned my attention to the events unfolding before me. Ambrosius was a threat, and it was my job to protect the Queen from threats.

An arms length away, Lancelot was having similar thoughts, and it did not escape my notice that, beneath his cloak, he was subtly resting his hard on one of his long knives. I sent him a little pulse of reassurance as I took up a similar stance. I did not need any sort of fae interference to sense the unhappiness and hostility from the King, though he hid it behind a veneer of courtesy as he spoke with his cousin. I gathered that Ambrosius intended to visit "for a time” - and, under the rules of hospitality, Arthur couldn't turn him away without good reason. Which he didn't have. This was going to be on unpleasant few weeks.

* * * *

Arthur announced that there would be a feast that evening  “to welcome Lord Ambrosius properly," and the Court hurriedly dispersed to prepare. Cei appeared to direct our unwelcome guest to his quarters, and sort out logistics of housing his large retinue. I suppressed a wince at the thought of what chaos would prevail in the kitchens as they attempted to ready a feast in such a short span of time. However, I personally  
had other matters to attend to.

The King retreated to his study with Guinevere, Gareth, Gawain, and myself. He was tight-lipped and clearly annoyed, and it spoke to his ever-handedness as a ruler that the expression, though forbidding, did not spark fear either in us or the guards we passed on the way. Arthur was a rare King who did not lash out on abuse his power.

“Well, he obviously has some agenda in being here..." observed Gawain, voicing what .we were all thinking.

“We need to figure out what it is," I added, "I'll reach out to a few of my contacts. Gareth, I don't suppose you could try to... befriend one or two of his guards?"

He huffed a laugh. "Befriend? no. Take out and get drunk and listen to them babble while pretending to be equally drunk? Absolutely."

“Why does Gareth have to be the one to do that?" asked Guinevere, apparently a bit protective of her new Champion.

Gareth replied, "Because I'm the least intimidating," at the same time as Gawain and I said the same thing, all three of us smiling ironically.

Guinevere smiled her agreement and understanding, then said, "I didn't see any women in the retinue, but if there are any I will invite than to join me and my ladies-in-waiting. Perhaps borrow Dinadin for an afternoon of entertainment - try to win them over and see what they know. Men talk around women and fail to realize that we have ears." The four of us men in the room all hurriedly indicated our  
agreement, for she was certainly correct that most powerful men severely underestimated women. It was a weakness we had exploited in the past.

“Well,” said Arthur, “Keep that in mind if they do turn out to have any women with them. I’m afraid that until we get wind of what he’s plotting there isn’t much else that we can do besides be on our guard…” Shortly thereafter we dispersed to hurriedly prepare for the feast. Something was niggling at the back of my mind, almost like the feeling of having forgotten something, but I failed to put my finger on exactly what, and was soon distracted.

The seating arrangements at dinner were significantly different than usual due to Ambrosius’ arrival. He was given the place of honor to Arthur’s left, and Guinevere remained seated on the King’s right. The latter was non-negotiable; Arthur and Guinevere always sat together. Gareth likewise retained his usual seat beside the Queen, but with Ambrosius in my usual place, I was shuffled two seats further down, which placed Cei and Gawain between me and the guest. (A good idea from the standpoint of avoiding diplomatic incidents for I despised the man, but it unsettled me as it put me out of arm's reach of Arthur). The upshot, however, was that Cei had sat Tristan at the High Table as well, right next to me.

Although Tristan and I were very different, we had been friends for many years - and occasionally something more than friends - and it warmed something in me to sit down beside him, shoulders bumping a little as we settled into our seats. Thus, dinner got off to a rather pleasant start. Arthur gave a little speech welcoming in his cousin, then food was served and conversation started up. Tristan was in fine form, muttering snarky comments about members of the Court and asking me about what dramas he had missed during his time away. I don’t tend to gossip, but I knew most of what went on in Camelot’s halls, so I was content enough to tell Tristan, if for no reason other than to laugh at his invariably hilarious responses. He shared a few anecdotes from his travels as well, spinning amusing tales rather than the simple, straight-forward reports he had given that morning. Tristan had a talent for getting himself into ridiculous trouble that was matched only by his talent for getting himself _out_ of said trouble. It was one of the many reasons that bards and minstrels were so enamoured of him - or at least the idea of him.

After a time, Tristan nudged me gently with his elbow, leaned in closer, and asked, “So, seriously, you and Gareth. When did that happen?”

“Umm...a little less than a year ago,” I replied honestly, knowing Tristan would not judge. His failed relationships with women were well known, but had had his fair share of male lovers as well over the years.

He smiled at me. “Congratulations. I’ve been waiting for that for years. You two have been eyeing each other for ag-” I kicked him hard under cover of the table and he cut himself off. “Fine fine. I want to hear _all_ about it though. But first - does no one else know?”

“Arthur, Guin, Gawain...Lynette. Bors found out and hates it. Other than that, no. Well…I think Gareth mentioned that Gaheris and Geraint had guessed. But that’s all. And now you.” I didn’t tell him to keep it secret, I didn’t _have_ to.

Tristan smiled at me, a real, genuine smile rather than one of his usual teasing or sarcastic ones. “I’m glad for you two. Really. You deserve-”

Whatever Tristan had been about to say was interrupted by a raised voice from down the table. “I will not stand to be insulted to my face - and I don’t care _what_ you’re duke of!”

I could sense Gareth’s mingled amusement and horror, and belatedly recognized that as _Lynette_ speaking. I said a quiet prayer that she wasn’t talking to Ambrosius (who was technically a Grand Duke, though seemed to prefer Roman terms).

My prayer went unanswered when, a moment later, Ambrosius spat back, “And _I_ will not be spoken to in that tone - particularly not by some foreign whelp of a girl playing at being a queen.”

“All _due_ respect, my lord, but I am not _playing_ at anything,” responded Lynette in a tone of voice so cold that I fancied it lowered the temperature of the entire room. A tone which also made it clear that she did not think Ambrosius was due any respect whatsoever. Then she stood and swept out of the room without a backward glance, and without pausing to ask permission from either the King or Queen, or even to acknowledge their presence. The breach of decorum stunned Gareth, though I also sensed a grudging respect for Lynette’s gall.

Beside me, Cei closed his eyes and blew out a slow breath through his nose, and indication that he was in a state of mind that would have had a lesser man sinking his head in his hands in despair. Tristan gave me a questioning look and mouthed, “That’s Lynette?” He’d had time to hear of her in passing since he had returned, but clearly had not actually met her.

I suppressed a chuckle and replied, “She’s usually more agreeable than that.” On my other side, Cei made a disbelieving noise. I clarified, “She’s good woman, but she is headstrong and proud and does not enjoy Court much. I mean, recall that we first met her because she disguised herself as a knight and challenged Gawain to a duel in order to draw some of us away from Camelot to help her win her country back. She’s hardly an ordinary woman, and, as you know, most of the courtiers most adamantly do not approve of un-ordinary women.”

“Ah, so that’s how she has already acquired such a disparaging nickname among the gossips.” Trust Tristan to be more aware of gossip after a day back than I was after spending most of the summer at Court. Seeing my expression of confusion, my friend elaborated, “They call her the Loathly Lady. As a musician I must say it is a lovely turn of phrase. But…” he made a face to indicate that he did not at all approve of calling a woman like Lynette by such an insulting name. I only hoped that Gawain never heard it or I feared he would be challenging someone for Lynette’s honor. I said as much and Tristan chuckled and agreed. Personally, I thought it no laughing matter; Gawain was the Heir and we couldn’t have him duelling at the drop of a hat. Then again, with Ambrosius around, that was likely to be the least of our worries.

From two seats over, I could hear Ambrosius complaining to Arthur about Lynette’s treatment of him, followed by Arthur’s soothing tones at a lower volume. I closed my eyes and felt a headache coming on.

*  *  *  *

I could sense Lancelot’s growing exhaustion, but was currently caught up listening to Arthur try to placate his cousin following Lynette’s outburst. Guinevere leaned in close to me and murmured in my ear, “I shouldn’t say this, but honestly, I don’t blame her at all.”

It was true. Ambrosius had been needling at everyone in his immediate vicinity all evening. Gawain, being Gawain, and barely twitched at the insult implying that he was still more loyal to his traitor father than to the King; Arthur had merely smiled blandly when his cousin made a pointed comment about the fact that Arthur was the bastard son of the family; and in response to a snide remark about her supposed affair with Lancelot, Guinevere had reposted that she was sure Ambrosius’ wife was enjoying the peace and quiet of their home while he was gone. When Ambrosius brought up my low birth - “ _Interesting_ that a serf has managed to rise so far in the Court...” - I had simply given him the too-innocent smile that Lancelot always said was the most terrifying of my expressions, and thanked him for recognizing my talent. Guinevere had nearly lost her composure at that one, and I was quite certain I saw Gawain take a drink to hide his smile. But Ambrosius had targetted Lynette with a sharper jab, and, though she had deflected at first, I did not really blame her for losing her temper. There are, after all, only so many times that one can dissemble and side-step when a man insinuates that you arranged to have your family killed to take power for yourself. Her reaction was likely to cause problems for us, but I did not really blame her, and I could respect the confidence it took not only to insult a man of Ambrosius’ power, but also to sweep out of a feast without a by-your-leave.

For several minutes after the incident, the hall was quieter than usual. Tense, almost. Just as the atmosphere was beginning to lighten again, Ambrosius called for entertainment, as if this were his castle and he were lord here. Dinadin, who was dining with some of the knights at a table in the center of the room, rose in the ensuing shocked silence and bowed elegantly. “My lord king, your hospitality and generosity are as notable as ever, and you would honor me if you would allow me to offer some entertainment this evening. As we all know, I make a habit of playing for my supper-” A ripple of laughter went around the hall, for Dinadin was as much bard as he was Knight, and had on several famous occasions disguised himself as a travelling minstrel in taverns around the country and in the homes of Arthur’s enemies. His self-deprecation and playful demeanor made it hard to remember that he was an accomplished warrior in his own right, and had more than earned his place at the Round Table over the years. He smiled brightly and went on, “-I make a habit of playing for my supper, and if it pleases Your Majesty I would do so this evening. Good music is often, I find, a suitable accompaniment to a lovely meal.” I shook my head a little at his flowery speech, but it was all part of the act he was putting on, highlighting Ambrosius’ lack of manners not only with an excessive display of his own, but by pointedly making a request to the King for permission to play, as if it had been his own idea all along.

Arthur smiled, undoubtedly thinking similar thoughts, and gestured almost lazily. “I will never turn down such a fine bard as yourself, Sir Dinadin; you honor us with your offer.”

Dinadin bowed again, and servants appeared with his harp and lute. He selected the harp, settled himself on a stool to one side of the High Table, and launched into a song that I had first heard as a boy of seven, listening at the tavern door when a poor minstrel passed through my home village. It was a tale about one of Arthur’s first great victories after he became King. Dinadin followed this very popular piece with another, slightly less well-known one, about the battle which had seen Arthur defeat the uprising of which Ambrosius had been a part. No names were mentioned, but plenty of those present remembered it well enough. Thus Ambrosius got the entertainment he desired, but it was evident to all that he was not enjoying it.

Dinadin did not usually play such songs for Arthur was not the sort of King who enjoyed hearing his praises sung over dinner. But Dinadin had always had a keen political sense, and Arthur was certainly raising no objections on this particular evening.

After these two songs, he reverted to instrumental music only, and conversation returned to the Hall. But the King and Queen retired shortly thereafter, Lancelot and I on their heels as always. I could feel Lancelot’s relief at getting away from the oppressive atmosphere.

To my faint surprise, Tristan caught up to us about halfway to the Royal Suite, falling into step beside Lancelot. “You and I never finished catching up at dinner. We should talk. Gareth - you should join us too.” Lancelot and I exchanged a look which, thanks to our bond, went far deeper than just the visible glance.

I nodded slowly, “Alright.”

“But here,” Lance added, “You’re not dragging either of us out to a tavern at this time of night.”

“You can use the study,” suggested Arthur, “Just send a page for some wine.”

We did just that, settling down in comfortable chairs around a low-burning fire. The study was probably my favorite room in the castle, with the sole exception of the bedroom I shared with Lancelot (while the kitchens came in a close third). It was a cozy space, though not small. The walls were wood-paneled where not lined with bookshelves, and a fireplace dominated one wall. Arthur’s desk was opposite it, and there were several chairs and a couch scattered about. A heavy rug covered the stone floor and added to to the feeling of warmth and comfort exuded by the place. The King did a great deal of work here, so it was not always a happy place, but I had grown extremely fond of it in the past year as I had gotten to spend more and more time there as part of the King’s inner circle.

“So,” said Tristan, smirking as he gestured between Lance and I, “How did this happen?”

I expected Lancelot to side step the question, or at least delay answering in some way, perhaps tease Tristan about his curiosity, but instead he replied promptly and openly. I leaned back, propped my feet up on a convenient ottoman, and listened curiously as my lover described being injured in a tournament, trying to relinquish the role of Champion to me, and then how I had sat with him that night. He skipped over the nightmare and emotional breakdown that he had had, though something in his eyes and an understanding little grimace from Tristan made me think that the other Knight could infer at least the general shape of what had been omitted from the tale. I was interested in how close Tristan and Lancelot seemed to be; I had known intellectually that they had been friends for years, but had failed to realize how deep that connection apparently went. Judging both by the conversation and what I could tell from my bond with Lance, Tristan was apparently one of the few people that my lover actually trusted.

Then Tristan turned to me and asked with a laugh, “So, you’ve been putting up with him for a year?”

“Believe it or not, he has a few redeeming qualities,” I replied in the same tone.

Tristan grinned suggestively. “Oh, I’m _sure..._ ”

Lancelot threw a pillow at him. Tristan barely managed to catch it, and spluttered indignantly for a moment before throwing it back. Lance batted it away one-handed as we all laughed. It felt good, easy. Without examining it too closely, I wasn’t sure how much of my contentment was my own and how much was Lance’s, but I also didn’t care.

Abruptly, however, Tristan sobered. “You two are being careful though? Tell me you’re being careful. If people found out…”

“Very few people know,” Lancelot assured him, “And of course we’re being careful.”

“You _must_ be careful,” Tristan reiterated, and I felt a flash of irritation from Lance, but it was layered over a grudging sort of understanding - Tristan had suffered through a number of scandals, mostly surrounding his love life, so his concern was coming from a place of genuine understanding about the risks.

“We are,” repeated Lancelot and I at the same time an in precisely the same emphatic tone of voice, then looked at each other in amusement and the sober mood broke. Soon we were all laughing again.

We talked late into the night, Tristan catching us up on some of the details of his travels, and telling embarrassing stories about Lancelot when they were both younger. My lover bore it with surprisingly good grace, but retaliated in kind. They had known each other for a very long time, though Tristan was some years younger, having run away from Cornwall to join Arthur’s army when he was only 14. (Of course, Arthur had not let him fight at first, but he had apparently attached himself to then-20-year-old Lancelot.)

Later, when Tristan had gone off to his own rooms and Lance and I were settling down in bed, I asked, “It seems like you were Tristan’s...mentor when you first met.” I hoped not; it would be awkward for any variety of reasons that I’d rather not bring up just then.

Happily, Lance responded, “No, not really. He wanted me to teach him, yes, but...we were away at war so much, and he was forced to stay behind, that we didn’t actually see much of each other. He spent time with various lords, training...Then, one day a few years later, I looked up and he was an adult and very nearly my equal as a warrior - that was when we began to get to know each other and became friends.”

“That’s nice,” I murmured sleepily, “I can tell that you like him and trust him. It’s good.” Some odd emotion welled up in Lance’s chest for a moment, but I was far too tired and content to pursue it - nor did I want Lance poking around _my_ emotions about Tristan too closely just now. Lancelot wasn’t the only one with a certain amount of history with the man.

“I…” Lancelot was a bit taken aback at my comment about trust, but then slowly agreed. “I suppose I do. He’s given me reason to over the years, though I know some people find him flighty.”

“He isn’t, though,” I observed, “A bit...changeable, maybe, but not flighty.”

“He’s survived a lot; handles it in his own way.” It was agreement, however oblique, so I merely hummed in assent. We fell into silence for a few moments, Lancelot’s fingers carding gently through my hair, and I began to drift off, warm with contentment a pleasure that was more emotional than sexual - I loved it when he held me and touched me like this. Then Lance said softly, “I’m worried about Ambrosius being here…”

“We are all,” I mumbled, “But it will save ‘til morning.” My _I hope_ was silent but understood.

“True. Good night, love.”

“G’night.”


	4. Chapter 3: Artifice and Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3: Artifice and Honesty (and can one provide the other?):
> 
> Ambrosius' plotting begins (very slowly) to take shape due to the machinations of Gareth and Guinevere. Also, Dinadin puts his foot in his mouth, but removes it before any lasting harm is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This leaves off on a tiny cliffhanger. Less cliffhanger and more foreshadowing of a sort. So I _will_ try to get the next chapter posted in reasonably short order. I have it planned but not drafted, so we will see.

Having Ambrosius in Camelot was exactly as unpleasant as we had all anticipated, and it was made more unnerving by the lack of any overt moves on his part. I knew that Lancelot and Cei were reaching out to their respective networks of informants, but that would take time to yield anything. Thus, I set about creating an opportunity to get a couple of Ambrosius’ guards drunk to see if they would let anything slip.

I didn’t want to appear too friendly with them, and that wouldn’t have been believable anyway. But guards would complain about duty, and would look for a place to go drink on their evenings off - even the Knights did it. So I spent a couple of days marking out a few of Ambrosius’ guards who were about my age and seemed somewhat nicer than most of the others, then made sure I was conveniently hanging about when they got off duty. On the third day of this, I overheard one complaining to another that “We never get any decent food or drink - always working through supper!” Now I knew for a fact that the kitchens would feed them any time of the day, but I understood the sentiment that underlay the words, and suppressed a smile before speaking up.

“There are a few good pubs in town - just little way from here. Including some with exceptional food, if you know where to look.”

“And do you know where to look?” asked one.

His friend elbowed him and muttered something that I couldn’t quite here but I imaged amounted to “of course he does, don’t you recognize him?” As Queen’s Champion I was, unfortunately, a bit more recognizable than I was used to being.

I smiled as disarmingly as I could manage, a lopsided sort of expression that was quite genuine, and offered, “I do, actually. Was just thinking about going out myself - gets a bit oppressive around here sometimes, you know?”

They glanced at each other and nodded grudgingly, so I grinned again and proffered a hand, “My name is Gareth. I can show you a place just a five minute walk or so from here.”

“Neither of us are wealthy knights, you understand…”

I laughed, “Good! Neither am I. I don’t know if you’ve heard but I’m not noble-born. I promise I’ll show you a place that won’t empty your purse.” Which was true, though in point of fact, I had money from the King’s coffers for this evening (but they didn’t need to know that, and I would strive not to make it obvious).

I watched them both consider, the second one looking me up and down closely, and saw the moment that they came the conclusion that this was an acceptable offer. With a friendly gesture I led them out of the castle by a side gate.

The pub I had in mind was just two streets over, and we did indeed reach it quickly. It was fairly busy, the dinner rush having not quite cleared out, but I and some of the other Knights were regulars at this place (or near enough) that when I asked the barkeep for ale and supper for the three of us it was delivered promptly. We took our plates and tankards and found a small table against one wall. After we sat down I made a point of unfastening my noteworthy red cloak and carefully setting it out of sight on the bench beside me. Neither asked outright, but the first guard gave me a curious look to which I responded, “I’d rather be a bit...less conspicuous tonight, if you know what I mean. The King likes us to wear the red cloaks so that we are recognizable, bit if I’m being honest,” here I leaned in a bit, as if confiding a secret, “It does get rather tiresome sometimes.”

That drew a small smile from both of them, and they finally introduced themselves - the nicer one was Marcus and his slightly more skeptical friend was Boris. When Marcus tried to call me Sir Gareth, I waved him away with a laugh and a very real grimace. “Oh! God no! None of that, especially not tonight! I need a break!”

I saw the moment that they both began to genuinely relax, obviously taken in by my friendliness and disgust of titles and attention. It was exactly as I had hoped, and neither objected or seemed suspicious when I offered to buy us all a second round.

“So,” I said, leaning back comfortably, keeping my posture as open and unthreatening as possible, “You two keep getting stuck on evening duty?”

They were more than happy to complain about that, and then, slowly, about other things. I was careful drink far less than they did, and listened carefully to everything they said. Not all of it was obviously useful at this time, but who knew what would be important in the future? As the evening wore and they became more drunk and even more relaxed, some decidedly interesting tidbits slipped out.

*  *  *  *

I had gathered that Gareth was out with two of Ambrosius’ guards, so I went to bed alone that night, feeling vaguely bereft, but pleased to realize that it was purely an emotional reaction rather than the bond reacting to our physical separation. That little problem seemed to have mostly resolved itself over the course of the summer; now the only time I noticed anything was if we were far apart, or separated for more than a day. Even then, it was no longer the debilitating issue it had once been.

Somewhat lonely without my lover there, I decided to see just how strong our bond was, and reached out in an effort to glean what information I could. I knew instinctively the general direction that he was from me, and roughly how far - I knew he was in the part of the city close to the castle. The longer and harder I focused the more I realized I could sense. Gareth was vaguely stressed, but there was nothing overtly wrong, which made sense given his current mission. He was not bored, which probably did not bode well since it meant he was learning something interesting - and with Ambrosius ‘interesting’ was rarely a good thing. I _felt_ the moment that one of the guards said something especially useful (or, at least, I was willing to assume that that was what caused the little jolt to go through Gareth, the emotional equivalent of _what the fuck?_ ) I smiled a little, and realized distantly that I was mostly asleep. Using our bond intensely was always a bit tiring, and it was already late. I briefly contemplated getting up and waiting for him, but then realized that it might be hours yet before he came back, and when he did it would be better for me to be rested.

I dozed for a time, and woke with a little start when the door opened suddenly. Gareth stood there, leaning tiredly on the frame. “Sorry to wake you,” he said, then went on without a pause, “I need you to get up and take notes while I still remember what they said. And we should send for Dinadin too since he remembers fucking everything that he hears.”

“You’re drunk,” I observed, though I certainly wasn’t judging him.

“A little. Not nearly as much as they are; I doubt they’ll even remember most of tonight. Turns out palatable ale is something of a treat for Ambrosius’ guards, and they were more than happy to indulge if they weren’t paying for it.”

That made sense, I thought as I got up pulled on boots and a doublet over my sleeping clothes. I had no idea what time it was, but doubted I would be going back to bed any time soon. “Sit, have some water,” I told Gareth, then went out into the corridor and told one of the guards stationed there to fetch Dinadin and send for some food for three people. Technically such errands were a page’s job, but when we wanted discretion we often used the Royal Guards; the guards knew this and therefore did not consider it an insult at all. With Ambrosius and his men around, discretion was most certainly in order. As was caution, I mentally added, as I noticed with satisfaction that someone had ordered double the normal guard on the Royal Suite.

Dinadin appeared promptly, managing to look only vaguely curious at the summons. That curiosity visibly grew as I led him into my chambers rather than the King’s study where we would usually have held meetings about things important enough to warrant an urgent pre-dawn summons. I explained as quickly as I could. “We’re trying to work out what Ambrosius is up to, and, in the interest of that, Gareth managed to get a couple of Ambrosius’ guards very drunk this evening. He just got back and wants to share what he learned with both of us. I’ll take notes, and you just listen, since we all know you remember nearly everything you hear.”

He processed all that, then nodded. “My pleasure. Shall we send for foo-”

“I already did,” I assured him, and sure enough it arrived mere moments later.

“Perfect!” said the bard, far too brightly for this ungodly hour, “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Gareth paced the room while he spoke, trying to keep himself awake and somewhat alert. He started at the beginning of the evening, and recited how he had met the two guards, then verbally walked through their conversation. I scribbled notes about anything I thought was likely to become relevant, while Dinadin sprawled in one of our chairs, eyes closed, fingers tapping out a silent tune on his leg while he listened intently. Dinadin was a proper bard in the sense that once he heard a story, he rarely forgot it, and had a mind like a steel trap for details. This was hardly the first time that we had made use of that bard-ly skill for knightly or political purposes.

Towards the end of the tale, Gareth reached the bits that made me pause briefly in my writing, and Dinadin open his eyes sharply.

“Marcus said that Ambrosius has been communicating regularly with his old allies, and that some of those allies’ troops have come to train with them.” This had let to some tensions among the different factions, which could be exploitable in the future, if it came to that, but then Gareth added, “And the last thing was that there have been extra patrols along the southern border of Ambrosius’ lands, but the rumor among the men is that there is more to it than just patrolling. Unclear if they are raiding or doing something else, but I think it’s unlikely that Ambrosius feels the need to step us security along his border with King Mark to this great an extent - Marcus and Boris said there were maybe three times as many men assigned there as elsewhere, and Ambrosius’ northern border is _actually_ a bit unstable, so that is saying something.” I stared at those words - ‘King Mark’s border’ - knowing they were important, but I was so tired and still assimilating such a large volume of information that I rapidly decided that I’d have to come back to it in the morning.  

It was, by my measure, approaching dawn by this time. My hand was sore, and Dinadin stretched like a cat when he rose from his chair. Gareth just threw himself onto the bed with a groan. “That’s it, I’m going to sleep.”

“I’ll be sure to wake you in time for lunch,” I said with laugh; we both knew full well that he would likely be needed far earlier than that. Gareth merely made a rude gesture in my direction, too tired to muster a verbal response.

Dinadin paused in the doorway and looked between Gareth and I for a moment, but said nothing as he left. I stood there for a moment, then hurried after him, catching up to him in the middle of the common room. “I....” I began, then realized that I hadn’t the faintest idea what to say.

He looked at me closely for a moment, then back at the room, and it occured to me that if I had simply let him go he might have assumed that Gareth was merely staying in my bed because he was exhausted and still slightly drunk. “You’re lovers, aren’t you?” Dinadin asked softly.

“Would you believe me if I said no?” I asked, only half joking.

“Not really, not now. I always half suspected, but it...frankly it didn’t seem like you, Lancelot.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, genuinely confused. I had been under the impression that it was at the very least fairly common knowledge among the Knights that I did not take women to my bed. Most had, at one point or another, come to the (correct) conclusion that I preferred men, though they never brought it up (or did so only when very, very drunk). It was clear in little things, even if it was not remarked up on. Just as it was known but not discussed that at least half of Tristan’s lovers were male. Some of the Knights didn’t care, and those that did (like Bors) were either happily oblivious or knew better than to confront us. No one wanted to make an enemy of powerful men who were also among the very best swordsmen in the country. So I did not understand why Dinadin, who was certainly among the most observant of the lot, would be surprised that I was sleeping with another man.

Dinadin huffed and glanced away briefly before meeting my eyes and saying, “I didn’t think you would take advantage of someone who so clearly looks up to you.”

That rocked me back on my heels, and I actually took a half step back in surprise. “You...really think I would do that?”

“Well, you’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but…” I paused my mouth working silently around words it took me several moments to find, “Only for about a year. I never would have...I never would have _taken advantage_ , Dinadin, and I thought knew me well enough to know that.” Dinadin looked vaguely embarrassed, but he said nothing, either to argue or apologize, so I added rather harshly, “Trust me, when we were first together it was most certainly not me ‘taking advantage’.” Suddenly I did not want to deal with this any more. “Thank you for your help tonight,” I said, dismissal clear in my tone, then turned and stalked back into my room with all the aplomb of the born king that I was (although I only narrowly resisting the urge to childishly slam the door behind me).

Gareth was sitting up on the bed, looking at me intently, and realized that my emotional turmoil must have disturbed him. I offered a small smile, the best I could manage just then. “You should get some rest.”

“What did Dinadin say to you?” Gareth asked, ignoring my words entirely.

“He was...disappointed in me for taking advantage of you,” I replied, suddenly feeling utterly, profoundly exhausted.

Gareth looked vaguely shocked at that, and I got the distinct sense that he was seriously considering getting out of bed and storming off to find Dinadin and give him a piece of his mind. But he got that impulse under control rapidly, and instead just looked at me with warm sympathy and held out a hand. “Come to bed, Lance,” he said softly, and I did, crawling into his arms and letting him hold me.

I was closer with Dinadin than I was with most of the Knights; he was not a dear friend the way Tristan was, but we got on well and I respected his varied talents. It was a blow to realize that he assumed the worst the moment he found out about Gareth and I.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” murmured Gareth, “I’m sure he’ll come around; he was probably just surprised. And it is late and we’re all tired and worried about Ambrosius.” He was right, but it did little to ease the cold ache in my chest. I knew I was starting to spiral back into my old depression and anxiety, the fear that Gareth would leave me because of the damage to his reputation that would inevitably result from people finding out about us. It was irrational, and I now knew it to be irrational, but that didn’t always help as much as it should. Gareth merely stroked my hair and sent warm love pulsing along our bond, rather than try to reassure me verbally. I appreciated his understanding, but did not get any more sleep that night.

At some point a little after dawn Gareth and I ended up switching places, so he lay on my chest rather than the other way around. I pulled the blanket up around his ears, enjoying the way he sighed and snuggled down into the combined warmth of my body and the heavy fabric. Some of his contentment even spilled over into me has he drifted back into a deep sleep, needed the rest after his very late night. Although I could not fall back to sleep, I did doze a little, warm and comfortable and trying not to think about anything beyond the door of our room - not Dinadin or Ambrosius or King Mark’s troubles or any of it.

*  *  *  *

I woke warm and content, with Lancelot’s arms around me and his heartbeat slow and steady in my ear. Someone was knocking on the door, disturbing my rest.

“Gareth, are you up?” It was the Queen.

I sighed, repressed my urge to groan and pout like child, and called back, “I can be in just a moment.”

“Lovely. Meet me in the solar.”

“Well,” said Lancelot, “Guess you’re going to have to make do on just a couple hours of sleep…”

I grumbled for a moment, then stretched and sat up. “Yes, I will.”

Lancelot got up with me, and I could tell that he hadn’t slept; his eyes were tired and he looked more his age than usual. It made me want to kiss him and pull him back into bed to rest. That wasn’t an option, but I could tell that he appreciated the sentiment.

We both dressed quickly, and made our way out to the hall - then stopped dead. Immediately outside the Royal Suite was Dinadin. He was leaning against the wall across from the door as if he had been there for some time, but he perked up the moment he saw us. I opened my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but before I could he looked right at Lancelot and said, “I’m terribly sorry for what I said last night.” Lancelot stared at him for a moment, I could _feel_ his inner turmoil. Dinadin’s words a few hours earlier had touched on some of Lancelot’s most deeply-ingrained insecurities, and he felt betrayed by a man he had trusted. Given the way he was raised, Lancelot did not trust easily or often. But Dinadin looked so sincere and even pained, that Lancelot finally decided to give him a chance to at least explain. Mindful of the guards stationed either side of the door, Lancelot took Dinadin firmly by the arm and dragged him back into the suite. I would have liked to go with them, but my duty to the Queen unfortunately took precedence.

Guinevere was waiting for me down the hall in her solar. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders before walking in.  “How can I help, Your Majesty?” I asked, hoping she would clue me in to the day’s plans and distract me from whatever drama was occuring with Dinadin.

She pursed her lips a little and muttered, “Gareth, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times that you needn’t call me that in private.”

“I know, Your Majesty,” I managed with a tired smile. Despite repeated assurances from the King, Queen, and Lancelot, I still did not feel comfortable referring to her simply as ‘Guinevere’. When Lancelot was around I sometimes managed it, but when it was just the two of us my training re-asserted itself.

Luckily, Guinevere let it go for the time being, turning her attention to the issues at hand. “There are no women in Ambrosius’ retinue,” the disdain in her tone was obvious, “So I can’t be of much use on that front. But Arthur and I were discussing things last night and we decided he would try to take Ambrosius hunting today. Or, failing that, show him around the city, particularly the old Roman quarter. Meanwhile, I’m going to host a little get-together in the gardens to take advantage of the nice weather. Only Ambrosius’ advisors and officers will be invited, along with my ladies. We’ll see if we can flatter them into letting something slip. And if nothing else, perhaps we can cultivate some contacts among them.”

It was a long shot, but since we were still waiting to hear from Cei and Lance’s sources, a long shot was probably worthwhile. Recalling myself suddenly, I said, “I got two of Ambrosius’ guards drunk last night. It was...informative.”

That got the Queen’s attention, and she insisted I give her a summary of the evening before we did anything else. A line appeared between her eyebrows as I spoke, and I knew she was filing the information away. Arthur was renowned as a strategist, and he was good at applying that to politics. But of the two of them Guinevere was the true _politician_.

“Right then,” she said after a long pause, “Well, let’s see if we can’t find out more about these ‘patrols’ they’ve been conducting.” Her tone of voice was akin to the tone one would use to say ‘let’s see if we can’t put a stop to this insanity’ - which, honestly, was more or less what she meant.

 

The King was successful in convincing Ambrosius to go hunting with him, and most of the Knights and high ranking nobles went along as well, (though Gawain, notably, stayed behind). Ambrosius took a few of his personal guards, but that was all. Guinevere’s ladies-in-waiting gathered in her private garden, along with the very flattered members of Ambrosius’ retinue who had been invited. I stayed in the background and watched, impressed, as the Queen played the perfect hostess, dimpling and welcoming everyone, saying how, “It only seemed right to offer you some entertainment while the Lord Ambrosius and my husband are off hunting.” Dinadin was there to provide said entertainment, and he was careful to work his way back into the good graces of our guests by playing a few upbeat tunes, and then asking for their suggestions. He played everything they wished to hear, even though I could almost see him wince at some of their suggestions.

It was, objectively, a lovely afternoon. The sun was out and it was pleasantly warm; everyone lounged on blankets and pillows arranged beneath a yew tree and ivy-covered bower; and conversation drifted lightly through the charming garden as the guests were treated to expensive wine and trays full of delicacies from Camelot’s kitchens. And I could not relax. Guinevere had sent away the usual guards, meaning I was the only armed member of the the King’s household present. Our visitors were not supposed to wear their swords inside, and had thus far respected that request, but I could see several supposedly hidden knives, and the situation set my nerves jangling.

Each of Guinevere’s ladies-in-waiting had collected one or several guests around her, and were all being thoroughly charming. These women were not just random noblewomen; they were the Queen’s hand-selected friends and allies, and demonstrated their subtle usefulness in moments like this. Many of these men had probably never had the attention of high-ranking, beautiful women before and were soaking it up - and letting slip household secrets in an effort to impress. I suppressed a smile at Guinevere’s cleverness.

After an hour or so of this, Gawain appeared, which caused something of a stir, but he merely sat down near me in an unobtrusive corner and picked up a goblet of wine. I followed the direction of his gaze and carefully swallowed back the chuckle that bubbled up in my throat. He was staring at Lynette. Of course. Lynette had become something of an honorary member of Guinevere’s ladies - her cleverness meant she fit in well, though the others were all far more circumspect and adept at navigating Court. She was currently listening in on a conversation one of the other young women was having with the lieutenant of Ambrosius’ guard. The man was just the wrong side of drunk, blathering on about the strength of his lord’s army thanks to the arrival of troops from his allies, unwittingly giving us valuable intelligence on a fighting force we might soon be at war with.

After a few minutes of this, Lynette rose and went over to sit by Gawain instead, without excusing herself for the former, or asking permission for the latter. This raised eyebrows among those few who noticed, but Gawain merely smile warmly, apparently unperturbed. Or perhaps just pleased by the opportunity to talk somewhat privately. I glanced at the two of them periodically while my main attention remained on the armed men in the garden. I had rarely appreciated so fully just how much strain Lancelot was under almost perpetually as he tried to keep the King safe, and I was mildly amazed that it didn’t show more.

Shortly thereafter, one of Ambrosius’ men requested a more upbeat song to dance to. A few of the ladies obliged their erstwhile conversation partners, and as the second song began Lynette rose and offered a hand to Gawain. “Would you dance with me?” she asked boldly.  Two of the men nearby tittered in amusement, and one of Guinevere’s ladies made a judgemental face, but I couldn’t help but smile a little. The others might be wondering how she had the nerve to be so forward, but it seemed to me that asking Gawain to dance was quite a small thing, seeing as when they had first met she had challenged him to a duel (albeit in disguise and as a ploy to gain our assistance). Gawain too appeared not to mind the breach of etiquette, and beamed up at her before agreeing enthusiastically. He’d never before indicated much interest in dancing, but this afternoon he clearly enjoyed himself a great deal. I just hoped that Lynette could see his adoration as easily as the rest of us could.

*  *  *  *

I watched Gareth leave and could sense his profound reluctance to do so. He was worried about me, which was...comforting. Then I returned my attention somewhat doubtfully to Dinadin." You wanted to talk to me?" I asked coldly, still smarting from his early accusations.

He glanced down and scuffed his feet, almost comically ashamed. "I've been waiting for you so I can apologize. What I said was... profoundly stupid. And you would have every right to strike me or never speak to me again, or both. Really." I raised one eyebrow pointedly, and he hurriedly went on, "I'm entirely serious. As soon as I thought about it all, I realized that you would probably rather kill yourself than do anything to hurt him. It’s been obvious for a long time that you care about him, I just hadn’t realized you cared about him like _that_ . I don't know what I was thinking last night - I guess I wasn’t. Anyway, I owe you an apology - and Gareth too when he is free. He's an adult who can make his own decisions and is strong enough not to be taken advantage of - by _anyone_. I still see him as that undersized little thing he was when he first became your squire, but he’s not anymore, and hasn’t been for a long time. Well...maybe still undersized, but definitely not a squire, and I suppose that I rather foolishly forgot that for a time...."

That drew a weak smile from me. I could understand where Dinadin was coming from, and the fact that he also wanted to apologize to Gareth went a long way toward helping me forgive him, though I still wasn't sure I could completely move on quite so quickly. “Thanks for all that..." I began, and Dinadin seemed to understand the hesitation in my voice.

"I understand it you're still mad at me, you have every right to be."

I smiled at him again, a little tentatively, but genuine all the same. "I think... it will be alright- " it would take me time to move on completely, but I would, ''-You should definitely apologize to Gareth, though. I think he may be more pissed off than I was."

Dinadin relaxed a little at my use of the past tense, and we stood there for a moment in a silence that was only slightly awkward. Before it had a chance to become more so, Arthur put his head into the room and  
said, "Lance - oh, good, you’re both here. We're taking Ambrosius hunting so that Guin and her ladies and Dinadin can see if his men are more talkative when he's not around.”

I suppressed a groan and Dinadin gave me a sympathetic half smile. I hated Court hunts, and somehow had the feeling that this one was going to be especially unpleasant. I envied Dinadin his ability to stay here, but if ever Arthur needed someone to guard his back, it was going hunting with his traitorous cousin.

“What sort of hunt?” I enquired, hoping he would say pheasant or deer or something relatively calm. But as usual I had no such luck.

“Boar,” replied Arthur, “Per Ambrosius’ request.”

Well fuck; that did not bode well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are love : )


	5. Chapter 4: Courtiers and Knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: Courtiers and Knights (and where does the distinction lie?)
> 
> Ambrosius continues to be disconcertingly decent, and Lancelot has a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to post this a week ago, but I was having trouble deciding where precisely to end the chapter. The result is that I have the next chapter already written - I'll edit it and post it in the next day or two! (And the next chapter finally delivers smut again. Promise).

I was entirely convinced that Ambrosius was going to use the boar hunt to try and arrange an ‘accident’ for Arthur. Hunting boar was notoriously dangerous; the animals were huge, powerful, unpredictable, and disgustingly difficult to kill. People died hunting boar with frankly concerning frequency. The fact that Ambrosius had requested a boar hunt set all my nerves jangling, and I was relieved that most of the Knights were coming along. Nonetheless, I rode as close to Arthur as I could, and kept a close eye on his cousin the entire time. Disturbingly, Ambrosius was being perfectly decent. He and Arthur spent the ride into the forest politely discussing the spring planting season and upcoming harvest. Ambrosius didn’t even raise the issue of taxes, as most lords would have tried to do in that situation in order to lodge a complaint against the high rates, or angle for a better deal. (It never worked with Arthur, but they tried anyway). 

It was nearly noon when the chief huntsman reported back that the dogs had caught the scent of a boar just ahead. A thrill of excitement ran through the group of hunters - Knights, a few of Ambrosius’ guards, the huntsman’s assistants, and a handful of hangers on. Most courtiers chose to avoid boar hunting, but a few always rode with us regardless, and there were a handful with us today. Their presence made me even grouchier than I otherwise would have been as they were like as not to get underfoot, and complicate matters without meaning to. 

I nudged Eclipse a little closer to Arthur as those interested in actually  _ hunting  _ urged their mounts to a faster pace to follow the dogs. I could hear baying up ahead, and shouts from a few of the huntsmen as the boar was spotted. We broke into a clearing a few moments later and found the boar cornered by half a dozen hounds. The animal was massive and scarred, clearly having survived at least one previous attempt to kill it. And it looked to be spitting angry. Even as we watched, one of the dogs got a little too close, was caught by a curved tusk, and tossed aside, gored and bleeding from a wound which would surely kill it. I saw Arthur’s mouth thin; hunting hounds were expensive and hard to train, and he liked the dogs a great deal. One reason we rarely hunted boar was his reluctance to risk the dogs. 

The sudden violence sent a little chill through the group, and we all clutched our boar spears a bit more tightly. They were interesting and brutal weapons, with sharp metal tips and strong wood cross trees to prevent an impaled boar from pushing itself up the shaft to gore the person on the other end. They worked best on foot, so a few of us also carried throwing spears which would be used first. I resisted the familiar urge to physically put myself between Arthur and danger, and instead kept one eye on Ambrosius and one on the boar. 

Arthur gestured for his cousin to try for first blood if he wanted, but to no one’s surprise the man declined. Instead, it was Owain who urged his mount forward. He was the only active Knight older than I, a wiry fellow with short-cropped silver hair who rode better than anyone else I’d ever met. He wasn’t normally much for Court hunts, but he was the sort of man who ached for the thrill of a fight, and a boar was always a fight. He was also extremely talented with throwing spears, a skill that Arthur tried to instill in his cavalry, but which many never developed the knack for. You didn’t need good aim during a charge into battle, but you certainly did if you were going after an enraged, dangerous boar. 

Owain circled his horse, rode back a ways to give himself space to come at a canter and increase the velocity of the spear, then urged his mount within a few paces of the boar and hurled the weapon forward and down with great force. I guessed that a human on the receiving end of such a blow would have been run through by the wooden shaft, dead in moments. But it merely dug a deep furrow through the boar’s dense, leathery skin (had probably glanced off the shoulder plate), angering it further. The animal tossed its head again - though this time the dogs were out of the way - and charged. 

Arthur, I, and Ambrosius were off to one side and out of the direct path of danger. Others scattered, and by some minor miracle no one was injured. Then the boar turned around. Bedwyr swung out of his saddle and dropped to one knee on the ground, planting his boar spear firmly. He was a big, powerful Knight and probably stood a better chance than most of us, though I still winced a little when the animal charged straight at him. He braced - but the boar swerved at the last moment. The spear glanced off it’s shoulder and Bedwyr threw himself out of the way of the swinging tusks. Several more knights a few of the huntsmen were also now on foot, readying their spears, and off to my left, on the edge of the action, I saw Tristan knocking an arrow to his bow. An arrow wouldn’t kill a boar, but I knew what he was thinking - if necessary he could distract or redirect the beast. Two of the huntsmen carried bows as well, but Tristan was a spectacularly good shot, so I felt marginally better knowing that he was prepared. 

The boar turned again, and I felt my vision begin to narrow and my senses to sharpen. With the din of the dogs barking and people shouting, and the danger in front of me, it was like being in battle. That was no trouble for me, even if it did play with my senses and perception a bit, but the courtiers with us obviously weren’t familiar with it, and it was beginning to show. Their horses weren’t doing any better. One was dancing about so badly that his rider got down to try and calm him. The boar - through instinct or luck - noticed this new, easy target and veered toward the vulnerable man. The idiot didn’t even have a boar spear, and wasn’t looking at the threat now charging at him from just a few paces away.

I could anticipate the tragedy about to unfold before me, and reacted without thinking. I urged Eclipse forward, leaned  _ far  _ out of my saddle, caught the back of the man’s jerkin and hauled backwards, bodily throwing him out of the way. His horse screamed in fear even as Eclipse pivoted without my asking him to. The boar brushed past and pain ripped through my leg. I made some noise of pain and Eclipse lashed out with his back hooves at the boar, a useful battle maneuver that all of my warhorses were taught. He was protecting me, and I felt a surge of warmth for my still-temperamental mount. 

Tristan had reacted as well, firing off two arrows in quick succession. I pulled on Eclipse’s reigns with my free hand, hefted my throwing spear with the other, and hurled it. The weapon flew true, my training and battle-instincts serving me well, and the boar’s front legs buckled as the weapon embedded itself in the vicinity of its withers. The boar struggled back to its feet a moment later; it was still dangerous, but hampered now by several wounds. Bedwyr, still afoot, circled around until his movement caught the animal’s attention, then dropped down and once again planted his spear. This time the boar did not swerve, and was impaled upon the weapon. I watched as Bedwyr strained to keep hold of the spear as he was pushed several feet backward through the loam. 

A moment later it was all over. The boar collapsed, Bedwyr sagged with relief, and the huntsmen ran forward to make sure the beast was dead and to begin preparing it to transport back to Camelot. 

I sat on Eclipse’s back, breathing heavily and watching, until Arthur appeared by my side and put a hand on my arm. I cursed myself mentally for losing track of him and Ambrosius, even if for just a few moments, but then his voice pulled me from my thoughts. 

“Lancelot.  _ Lancelot.”  _ I blinked at him, sound rushing back in as my battle madness receded. Seeing my eyes focus on him, Arthur relaxed fractionally. “Lancelot, you’re bleeding.” 

I looked down in vague surprise and noticed a long tear in my leather breeches, and blood staining the skin beneath. I vaguely recalled the earlier flash of pain; though it had only been a few moments ago, it felt distant. I shook myself a little, a bit annoyed that I had sunk so far into my battle madness during this brief confrontation. A closer inspection of my leg revealed a shallow gash in my thigh, perhaps a handspan long or a little more. I grimaced by assured my friend, “It’s not too bad, I think.” I tested that theory by standing a little in my stirrups. The leg bore my weight with only a mild twinge. “Yes, it’s fine.”

“You’re seeing Gaius when we get back - you’d be seeing Morgan if she was here.”

I opened my mouth to argue, noted the flinty look in the King’s eyes, and acquiesced with a muttered, “As you wish.” 

As we turned back toward Camelot, I noticed Ambrosius watching me closely, and felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I could not fathom the cause of his sudden interest, and didn’t like it one bit. 

*  *  *  *

I caught up to Dinadin immediately after Guinevere’s little get-together broke up late in the afternoon. She and her ladies retreated to her solar to discuss what they had learned, and I cornered the bard in an ill-used passageway near the Royal Suite. He looked appropriately nervous, which pleased me on a primal level. Given my stature, visage, and personality, I was not a naturally intimidating person, and usually that was fine with me. But on this occasion I was glad to see the way Dinadin shrunk back slightly at the look on my face. 

“I know what you said to Lancelot last night,” I began, leaving him no doubt what I was angry about, voice low and belligerent. “First of all, no one asked your opinion. I sure as fuck didn’t, and I’m sure Lance didn’t either. So I’m not entirely sure what makes you think you needed to comment.  _ Secondly _ , I don’t need you to protect me or watch out for me, or whatever the fuck you think you were doing. I’m adult, in spite of the fact that half of you seem to forget it most of the time. and I’m offended that you think I need you sticking your nose into my private life. And thirdly, I cannot  _ believe  _ that you would think Lance would  _ take advantage  _ of  _ anyone  _ \- least of all  _ me! _ ” I finished, breathing hard and thinking of a few other things I’d like to say too, but a little surprised by just how irate I was. Oh I had been angry on Lancelot’s behalf last night, and still was. But I was  _ also  _ angry on my own behalf, chest tight with the emotion, and I was a bit taken aback by that. Apparently being the youngest of the Knights - the ‘baby’ of the group - bothered me more than I had realized. 

Dinadin merely stood quietly, waiting to see if I was finished, and when it became clear that I was - at least for the time - he said very contritely, “I know and I am sorry. I apologized to Lancelot earlier and I owe you and apology as well.” I rocked back on my heels a bit at that, genuinely surprised (though pleased) both by the words and the painfully earnest way Dinadin said them. He meant it. I’d seen him lie and dissemble and use that incredible voice of his for dishonesty enough times to be fairly certain that he was not doing so now. And I immediately felt bad for yelling at him.  

“I... Christ, Dinadin, I should have asked before I started lecturing you..." 

He waved away the apology. "Not at all. I deserved every word of that. I'm honestly amazed that neither of you punched me. I told Lance this morning that he’d be well within his rights - you too, for that matter."

That startled a strangled little laugh out of me. "If Lance didn't feel it necessary then nor do I. Just...don't do shit like that again. Ever."

“ _ Never _ ," he promised emphatically, looking like a man who knew he had just narrowly escaped some terrible death. "Crossing you two is a mistake I will  _ not  _ repeat." 

We shared tentative smiles, and I decided that I could forgive Dinadin - even if It would take more than one   
afternoon. He could accept that, understood that it would take a little time, and we mutually decided to move on. 

At that moment, we heard the shouts and clatter of hooves that announced the return of the King's hunting party. I mentally reached out toward Lance, something that I had not had the time on mental energy to do earlier in the day, and knew immediately that something was wrong. Without another word to Dinadin, I turned on my heel and took off at a run toward the main courtyard.

There were people, horses, and dogs everywhere, kitchen staff shouting about what to do with the huge boar that had been brought back, and others loudly relating the events of the day. Through all of the chaos, I spotted Lance immediately, mounted on Equinox by the King's side. Given that the two of them and Ambrosius were all accounted for (and the latter was still breathing), I assumed that nothing too tragic could have happened. On the other hand, I mentally reminded myself, I should probably know better than to make assumptions like that.

I wormed my way through the crowd, avoiding stamping hooves, heavy feat, and flying elbows, until I stood at Lance’s side. Then I  _ saw  _ what the trouble was - a gash along the outside of his right thigh, a handspan or more long, bleeding sluggishly. 

“What happened?” I demanded, looking between Lance and Arthur, only just managing to sound less-than-frantic. I still had that much presence of mind, at least.

“He pulled one of the courtiers out of the way of the boar,” replied the King, his tone turning  _ courtier  _ into a curse. 

“I’m fine, by the way,” added Lance frostily, the unhappiness rolling off of him in waves.

“I’m sure you are,” replied Arthur a tad indulgently, “But you’re still going to see Gaius. I can’t have my Champion falling ill to an infection or the like.” It was clear to me that they had already this argument - possibly more than once. 

“I can fetch him,” I offered, watching closely as Lancelot dismounted. He moved slow and stiff, but didn’t seem to have any trouble bearing weight on the leg, which was a relief. “Go up to the suite - we’ll meet you.”

His lips thinned in displeasure, but did as I suggested, urged on by the warm concern and love I was sending his way along the bond. I needed him to know how  _ relieved  _ I was that he had escaped serious injury, and since I couldn’t very well through my arms around him and kiss him here in the middle of the court yard, I was doing the second best thing while opting for a brusque tone of voice to cover my concern. Some small part of me noted that Ambrosius was watching all this with blatant interest, and filed that away to think about later. 

I found Gaius in his work room and told him why he was needed. Then I waited for agonizing minutes while he put away what he was working on, and packed supplies into a bag. My impatience grew as we climbed slowly up to the Royal Suite. I had seen Gaius move quickly when necessary, but since it was clear that Lancelot was in no immediate danger, the old healer was taking his own sweet time. I closed my eyes and took a slow breath, reminding myself firmly that a few minutes delay wasn’t going to hurt Lancelot any. It didn’t really help. 

All the while, I kept part of my mind focused on the place inside where I could feel Lancelot, and was pleasantly surprised by how much information I could glean, even from the distance of half a castle away. He was in pain, but only a surface sort of pain, not the kind that indicated something worse. He was tired from the hunt, angry at the idiocy of the courtier he had had to save, and worried about Ambrosius - but ultimately he seemed to be  _ alright _ . That knowledge was the only thing that kept me from physically hurrying Gaius along, but I still did not take an easy breath until we entered the suite.

*  *  *  *

I made my way slowly and gingerly up the several flights of stairs to the Royal Suite. Once there, I carefully lowered myself into a chair, and leaned forward a bit to closely examine my wound for the first time. It was shallow but long, and still bleeding. I prodded at it once ( just enough to ascertain that it did in fact  _ hurt _ ), then tipped my head back, and waited. 

I was not as tired as I had expected to be after the day I had had, though I could feel the beginning of a post-action crash - my brain disengaging again, my hands beginning to tremble slightly as the adrenalin left my system. In some ways, I was more affected by this than by a proper fight, because I was more used to proper fights than to close run-ins with boars. Nonetheless, I managed to look reasonably alert a few minutes later when the door opened suddenly to reveal Gareth and Gaius. The physician was clearly winded from the hike up to the tower, while Gareth was practically vibrating with stress. Almost unconsciously, I reached out along our bond to soothe him, surprising myself a bit with how easy and natural it was to do so. That earned me a small, almost shy smile before both of us were preoccupied by Gaius. 

The physician bustled over and began tut-tutting over the state of me. When he prodded none-too-gently at my leg, I sucked in a sharp breath, then glanced up at Gareth as he and I had the same thought at the same time - this was strikingly similar to the evening that had led to the beginning of our relationship. The thought made me feel...odd. That had been a bad day, and a rough night. But it had ended with me in Gareth’s arms, my seemingly unrequited love returned in kind. 

“You’ll need stitches,” said Gaius a moment later, only adding to the parallels, but pulling me from my thoughts, “And you’ll need to take it easy for a few days so the skin can knit.” I grimaced, but did not argue. I had learned my lesson about that. The physician went on, “Let me give you something for the pain-”

I began to object, but Gareth spoke over me, “Yes, that’s a good idea.” We exchanged a look (and a wash of emotion from which I learned that seeing me in pain pained  _ him _ ), but I shook my head.

“If I take something now, I’ll sleep through dinner…” I trailed off, knowing Gareth would understand the unspoken rest of that sentence:  _ and I don’t want to leave Arthur alone while Ambrosius is here _ . 

Gareth made a face, but swallowed further objections. He understood (and shared) my concerns. Gaius, by contrast, merely gave me a look that said he was unsurprised but displeased. I never had been a good patient and though he clearly did not understand why my presence at dinner was important, and thought me foolish for turning down medicine to ease the pain, he also knew it was pointless to argue. “Well,” sighed the physician, “You’d best get out of these filthy clothes. I need to clean and stitch the wound, and although I see that I can’t convince you to abandon this evening’s Court dinner, I do ask that you minimize the time you spend on your feet. And I’ll leave you a draught for after dinner so you can sleep.”

I thanked him, and retreated to my room to discard my sweaty, dusty doublet and shirt. Gareth followed behind me to ‘help’. Once inside the room, I leaned heavily up against the bed and began to undo the laces of my breeches, already dreading the effort to get them off without aggravating the cut. Gareth solved that problem by kneeling in front of me, stilling my hands, and then drawing a sharp knife from his boot. I gave him a raised eyebrow look that made him blush and earned me a muttered “shut up” even though I had not said anything. I understood what he intended though, and stayed still as he cut the leather back further from the wound. “I’d cut them off you completely but, well...leather. I don’t want to hurt you more by mistake.” I choked on a laugh and Gareth gave me a perfectly filthy smile. 

Once we had indeed gotten me undressed, I laid down carefully in the bed, pulling the blankets up over my uninjured leg, and Gareth fetched Gaius. I did not like this feeling - naked and vulnerable and wounded.  _ Except _ , murmured a small part of my brain,  _ If it was just Gareth you wouldn’t mind at all now would you _ . I made a face at my own thoughts. Gareth sensed the direction of my musings, the discomfort squirming in my chest, and sent a pulse of comforting emotion along the bond - gentle amusement tinged with reassurance, a sort of wordless  _ Idiot you’re fine I’m right here and you’re safe with me here _ . I smiled. 

Gaius appeared then with a small jar held delicately in one hand. “Since you refuse to let me give you anything for the pain, at least let me put a numbing cream around the wound once I’ve cleaned it - I need you to hold still for the stitches.” I could have done so without the cream, but I was not going to turn it down if it was on offer, and said as much. 

Unfortunately, cleaning a wound is always the most painful part, and for that there was no help. I twisted my hands in the bedcovers, gritted my teeth, and bore it as silently as I could. Distantly, I was aware of Gareth hoving over Gaius’ shoulder, tight-lipped and clearly miserable. The physician took his time as well, working carefully. Better to endure the pain now than risk an infection later. However, after I unconsciously jerked away one too many times, Gaius said to Gareth, “Hold his leg still, please; I’m nearly done but I’ll never finish like this.”

For a heartbeat, Gareth looked positively murderous, but then his better nature (or perhaps logic) overrode impulse, and he did as bid. I felt warm, calloused hands on my knee, then pressure as he leaned forward and pinned my leg down. I little shudder went through me, but I wasn’t entirely sure if it was pain or something else. It was over soon enough, though, and then Gaius quickly rubbed numbing ointment over the surrounding skin. The combined relief of the cause of the pain stopping, and the numbing beginning to take effect, made me briefly lightheaded. 

The physician then set about placing the stitches. He excelled at his craft, working steadily but carefully. It was painful, but far less so than before, and I let my eyes fall closed and my breathing even out. Gareth, I noticed, did not remove his hands from my knee. I was reminded again of the previous autumn, the most recent occasion on which Gareth had watched Gaius tend me. 

I was not so badly hurt this time, and no longer weighed down by the depression which had plagued me before, so I was in a position to almost enjoy it, if enjoy was a word that could be used in a situation like this. I certainly liked the idea of Gareth standing guard over me as he seemed to currently be doing. He saw the similarities as well, and gave me a half-smile of understanding. Part of me wished sincerely that I did not feel obligated to attend dinner - I wanted nothing so much as to send Gaius away, draw Gareth into bed, and perhaps enjoy a repeat of the more pleasurable parts of our first night together. Along our bond, I distinctly felt Gareth’s amusement, and then, to my shock got the clear impression that Gareth was thinking  _ later _ . 

Gaius soon finished his work, and left us alone with the admonishment that, dinner aside, I needed to rest - “Not like last time when I had to keep coming back and redoing the stitches for goodness sake!” Gareth and I shared a look that devolved into laughter as soon as the door was closed. But Gareth sobered quickly. 

“How are you really?” he asked, straightening out the blankets fussily. 

“Fine. Really,” I reassured him,  “I’ll do as I’m told and take it easy for a day or two so it can start to heal, and I’ll be fine.” There had been no actual damage done, which was a relief to both of us; the muscle was in tact, it was just the skin which had been torn - painful but not serious. “How long until dinner do you think?” I asked after a few moments of comfortable silence; I really did not want to move. 

“We’ll need to get ready soon. How about I dress first, then I can help you?”

I nodded my agreement, then openly stared as he stripped off the elegant Court clothing he had already been wearing for his day by the Queen’s side. “Enjoying the show?” he asked me archly. 

I grinned back. “Immensely.” I still felt  _ odd -  _ light-headed and strangely calm - from the combination of adrenalin crash and pain-then-no-pain, and though that would bother me when it came time to go to dinner, I was enjoying it for the moment as I admired my lover. “I am curious, however, what you intend to put on, since what you were wearing was already nice enough.”

Gareth smirked and walked - naked - over to one of the trunks that held his clothing. I lifted my head a little to follow the motion with my eyes. He plucked out a black silk shirt and black suede breeches, donning them and his usual cavalry boots. Then he fetched from a different trunk the grey leather breastplate and braces which Gawain and I had gifted him for his birthday. He had worn them a few times since then, but in the heat of summer and the safety of Camelot they had not risen to the level of daily wear. (I also privately suspected that he was worried about damaging them, beautiful as they were and frugal as he was). The ensemble was completed with his red cloak, trimmed in the grey of Queen’s Champion, and bearing Arthur’s golden dragon on one shoulder. The other shoulder, were a family crest would have gone, was blank, since Gareth and his family were commoners. That fact continually ate at me - not because I cared that my lover was not of noble birth, but because that blank expanse of fabric was painfully obvious when compared to the rest of the Knights. 

“Stop thinking so much,” said Gareth with a laugh as he paused in front of a polished silver mirror to run a comb through is hair. He looked  _ wonderful _ . That earned me a warm smile tossed over his shoulder, before he said, “Right, if you’re going to insist on coming to dinner then you need to get dressed. Want to wear anything special tonight, or your usual?”

“Whatever I wear, I want soft pants. Other than that, I leave it up to you.”

Gareth nodded, acknowledging the practicality of that statement, and while he went to rifle through my clothes I tried to gather enough energy to get up. I had just managed to lever myself upright and swing my legs off the bed (wincing a bit as my thigh twinged), when Gareth re-appeared by my side, setting a pile of cloth down on the bed. I noted with interest that it was not my usual all black. But I had said he could choose. 

He handed me a shirt first - black silk with gold embroidery around the edges - and I put it on without commenting that it was among my nicest and far dressier than the evening required. Then he picked up the breeches he had selected, a pair made of grey velvet that I had actually forgotten I owned. They were indeed soft, and I did not object when Gareth insisted I stay seated while he worked them over my feet and up to my knees. Then I leaned on him heavily while he helped me stand and pull them on the rest of the way, taking his assistance without complaint even though it was mostly unnecessary. 

The numbing ointment had only worn off slightly, but with the bandages over the wound I did not think it likely that the velvet would aggravate the stitches much. I said so, testing my weight on the leg a bit while Gareth reached for the laces to do them up. I gave him a look at that, but he merely smiled innocently, and I said nothing. I was enjoying this interplay between us, though I had yet to pin down exactly what it was. Gareth was obviously  _ taking care of me _ , and I had offered that and welcomed it. But there was an unexpected playfulness to it, something his his eyes and smile, and I was thoroughly enjoying both aspects. It felt a little like standing on peat, unsure if the ground would hold my weight or give out, but since Gareth was there to catch me, I was willing to keep edging forward to see where this path would lead. 

I remained in this state of mind as he laced up my boots, brought me my cloak, and even brushed my hair. I let him tie it back from my face, a style which he liked more than I did; it revealed the bright silver streaks at my temples, and I did not particularly appreciate the reminder of my age (even if I was less touchy about it now than I had been). But it made Gareth happy, and I was in a mood to prioritize that over the occasional side-long glances I got when courtiers were reminded that I was older than most of the active knights. Besides, barely a week ago I had won a tournament, and today I had saved a man’s life with the sort of reaction times and physical strength that most men half my age did not possess. So maybe I minded rather less than usual.

My good mood evaporated, however, as we made our way down to dinner and the usual stress of Court and Ambrosius’ presence again settled over me. The fact that I was moving stiffly and cautiously did not help, making me again feel vulnerable - and this time in a way that was not pleasant at all. People would undoubtedly notice my weakness, and I suspected that it would only fuel the periodic rumblings that I was getting rather old to the King’s Champion.  _ Ambrosius  _ had certainly noticed; he was again watching me closely, just as he had been earlier in the day, and I once again felt a cold prickle of unease trickle down my spine. Did he view me as a threat to be removed, or did he see me as a weak link in Arthur’s protection, something to be exploited? I sincerely hoped the latter, because proving him wrong would be a pleasure. 

I bit my cheek and flexed my hands a little, giving brief vent to my stress and annoyance, before smoothing my expression into its usual unreadable mask, and pulling myself up to stand a little straighter, a little more firmly, an imposing presence behind the King’s shoulder. Gareth mirrored the position by the Queen as we waited to enter the Great Hall; his slight stature less noticeable when he wore his armor and stood with his head held high and proud. Ambrosius’ attention slid from me to him, expression calculating.  _ Damn _ , what I would not give to know what Ambrosius was thinking; I only hoped that he had not somehow guessed that Gareth and I were more than friends. That was a disaster we did not need right now. 

Not knowing what Ambrosius was planning was eating at me, and I forever suspicious that his intentions were going to be revealed at any moment. The boar hunt had not gone as badly as I expected, but that only set me further on edge; it was like waiting for a battle to begin - not knowing exactly where or when the first arrows would fall, but expecting them at any moment, bracing for the inevitable death and destruction. I let my eyes drift over the two guards who were with Ambrosius. It was somewhat irregular for him to have them around him all the time when he was, at least nominally, an honored guest in his cousin’s home. They respected the laws of hospitality enough to leave their swords behind for dinner, but I made careful note of the fact that each carried a (supposedly concealed) knife in their boots. Gareth and I both wore our swords, as well as long knives (and a number of hidden daggers), which comforted me somewhat - being the King’s men had its advantages, such as the right to wear our weapons wherever and whenever we chose. 

Gareth offered a gentle touch on the back of my hand and on mind as we followed Arthur and Guinevere into the Great Hall, calming me further. Nothing bad was going to happen tonight. And if by some twist of fate it did, I was perfectly capable of fighting; I had certainly fought in worse physical shape in the past, and perhaps more importantly, I had Gareth by my side. 

 


	6. Chapter 5: Strengths and Weaknesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5: Strengths and Weaknesses (and can they be the same thing?)
> 
> A messenger from King Mark's lands unwittingly fills in a piece of the puzzle of Ambrosius' plan, and Lance and Gareth finally get to spend some quality time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lookit that! Two chapters posted in three days. Clearly I have no self control lol. Don't expect this pace to continue; I've barely started writing the next chapter...
> 
> This is a fairly long chapter. It includes a little plot to tease you with, and then much smut. It is also a direct continuation from chapter five (something I don't do terribly often), picking up as they are walking into the Great Hall for dinner.

I subtly watched the way Lancelot moved as we made our way down the Great Hall with the King and Queen. Both were resplendent this evening, but I was far more interested in my lover. He was not - quite - limping, but he was walking with the careful, measured tread of someone who was nursing an injury, and held himself gingerly as well. I hoped he was not in much pain - he did not seem to be, either by observation or by probing at our bond, but it was hard to say for sure. He _was_ somewhat anxious, and that I knew I could help soothe with the bond, so I did. In spite of the trauma which had led to the creation of that bond, I was frequently grateful for it, and privately considered it worth the previous pain.

I was pleased to note that a number of people were visibly surprised by Lancelot’s presence. This was, I understood, part of his interest in being here. The King’s safety was obviously his paramount concern, but a secondary consideration of his attendance at dinner in spite of his injury was that it was a subtle show of strength. Lancelot would not be sidelined by something like this, even though a wound from a boar was nothing to shake a stick at. I could both see and sense the way he stood a little straighter and firmed his steps, in spite of the twinging in his leg. He was proud to be here, and that was reflected in his stance. The King was known for having a _presence_ , but Lancelot was just as capable of projecting such a thing, and he was doing so now.

We took our seats at the High Table, and I noticed that on this occasion, Arthur had dispensed with courtesy to his cousin, and instead placed Lancelot directly beside him, with Gawain between the Champion and Ambrosius, simultaneously insulating Lancelot from a man he despised, and giving said man the honor of the Heir’s company for the evening. The Queen was also looking down the table, making note of the seating arrangements, then she leaned closer to me and asked quietly, “How is he? Arthur said he was injured during the hunt?”

“A cut on his leg acquired while pulling someone away from the boar,” I agreed.

“Yes, Arthur mentioned. But Lance _is_ alright?”

I was touched by her genuine concern, and assured her with a smile, “Not serious damage done, as far as we can tell. He can walk on it fine, he just needs to take it easy for a few days so the skin can begin to heal. He was...extremely lucky.” I added this last around a slight lump in my throat. I had thus far avoided thinking too closely about just how badly the day’s events could have ended. Boar hunts were sometimes deadly, and this one nearly had been. I had yet to get the full story from Lancelot, but it was amazing that he had come away with an injury that in truth was little more than a bad scratch.

Apparently seeing the direction of my thoughts on my face, the Queen laid a gentle hand on my arm. “I’m glad he’s alright - though I’m not surprised. That man seems to have an uncanny ability to survive anything.” I offered her a weak smile, appreciating her attempt to cheer me up, but remained quiet as the meal was served.  

Just as we were finishing the main course, a page brought a note to Cei, who was seated directly to my right. I watched the man’s dark brows draw together, then he rose and went to speak quietly to Arthur for a moment. I could not hear Cei’s words, but I did hear the King’s response: “Well, if he is insisting then we might as well let him say his piece.” It seemed dinner would not be the quiet affair I had hoped for. Lancelot, who had undoubtedly heard all of the brief conversation, was curious but not unduly concerned, which calmed me somewhat.

Cei gestured to the guards on the door, and a man was admitted to the Great Hall. He was immediately the center of attention of the entire room, and visibly quailed a bit beneath the weight of all those eyes. Nonetheless, he made his way forward and bowed very properly to the High Table. “Your Majesty,” he began, “I hail from Lord Caradoc, client-lord to King Mark.”

“Welcome to Camelot,” replied the King, attaching no name since the messenger had failed to give one, “You said you came on urgent business…?”

The messenger took a steadying breath and said, “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your meal, but I was directed by Lord Caradoc to speak to Your Majesty as soon as possible once I arrived here.”

The King nodded his understanding, offering a small, calming smile to the man. “Is it something that should be spoken of privately?”

“He...m’lord did not say. It is nothing of great delicacy, Your Majesty. It is just that Lord Caradoc sent me to request your help. We’ve been suffering bad raids these last few months, and our petition to King Mark when unanswered. So m’lord sent me to you.”

A little murmur went through the hall at that, and I well could imagine the carefully neutral look on Arthur’s face. By all rights, that message probably _should_ have been delivered in private since it was rather embarrassing to King Mark. A few people glanced at Tristan, who merely looked eminently unsurprised that his uncle was being useless.

“Have you any objection to discussing this in more detail come morning?” Arthur asked the messenger. “I am of course happy to help any of my client-lords, but the arrangements are probably best not discussed over dinner.” The messenger blushed slightly and hurriedly agreed.    

As the meal resumed, I became aware through my bond with Lancelot that he was absolutely _stunned_ by something - suddenly wound tight with tension and the need to speak to Arthur privately. And it had something to do with Ambrosius. It had started when the  messenger was speaking, so I assumed Lancelot had made a connection between the raids and- I paused with my goblet halfway to my mouth, frantically searching my memory for where Lord Caradoc’s lands were precisely. _Oh. Fuck._

*  *  *  *

As soon as the messenger said the Lord Caradoc’s lands were experiencing additional raids, I felt like someone had hit me over the head. I suddenly realized just what it was that I had felt like I was missing all this time as we had tried to work out Ambrosius’ plot.

Tristan had said that the lords in the north of King Mark’s lands were having more trouble than usual, and that there were oddly consistent murmurs of discontent throughout the whole area. And who’s lands bordered Mark to the north? _Ambrosius’_. Ambrosius, damn his mouldering soul, was undoubtedly behind all of this, and if so it indicated a far-reaching, long-term plot to undermine Arthur’s reign. I did not at all like how this was shaping up.

I also did not like how some people were looking at me, the narrow, searching gazes. I had no idea what they were looking for, but it made my skin crawl. I was used to being the center of attention, but this was different; it reminded me of the years when the rumors about Guinevere and I had been most rampant, when half the Court acted as if they expected us to slip up and reveal ourselves at any moment. Of course, there had not been anything _to_ reveal, and those rumors had eventually lost most of their potency. I wondered if Ambrosius was trying to resurrect them, and made a mental note to ask Cei about the current castle gossip. He had his contacts and I had mine, and they operated in very different spheres but all provided useful information. At the moment, however, I did not care what people thought of me; I cared about Arthur’s cousin apparently plotting to overthrow him.

After the remainder of a very subdued dinner, I caught Arthur’s arm and indicated that we needed to speak. Thus several of us - Gareth, Gawain, Cei, Arthur, Guinevere, and I - ended up in the study. I sank into a chair with a groan and tipped my head bad, then said without preamble, “So am I the only one who has noticed that we’ve now heard about various problems in King’s Mark’s lands, particular the region that borders Ambrosius’ lands?”

Arthur nodded slowly, clearly having had the same realization as I during dinner. Cei’s lips thinned dangerously, and Guinevere exclaimed, “That fits with what we learned from Ambrosius’ men today!” In response to our questioning looks, she added, “I had planned to tell you all tomorrow, but I suppose we’d best do it now.”

I groaned again and closed my eyes, weary down to my bones from the throbbing, burning pain in my leg. I could feel the stitches pulling every time I moved to fast or flexed the muscles, and I badly wanted to drink down the medicine Gaius had left and then sleep for a day.

“Is there anything so urgent that it cannot wait for tomorrow?” asked Arthur, obviously noticing my struggles. I felt Gareth’s gratitude toward him and smiled a little.

Guinevere considered for a moment, as did Gareth - I’d nearly forgotten that he had been present too - then said slowly, “I don’t think there is anything that will not save until morning. The men said that there have been extra patrols along the southern border, and that it is a bit of an open secret that they are not just patrols. There is some additional detail along those lines, and collectively that, Tristan’s report, and Gareth’s conversation with the two guards, paints a rather disturbing picture. But not one urgent enough to deprive Lancelot - or the rest of us - of our sleep this night. Goodness knows we may need everyone healthy and rested soon enough...”

On that unhappy thought, we all retreated to our own rooms. I rose last, with Gareth’s help since there was no one to judge, and leaned on him heavily as we made our way to bed.

“You look like you are in pain,” he said, as soon as the door closed behind us.

In truth, I was, and it was wearing on me. Usually pain did not affect me much, at least not quickly, but something about this injury was more painful than I had anticipated. I admitted as much, swallowing down my pride since, after all, this was _Gareth_ \- not only could I not hide anything from him anyway, but we had also by now established that he of all people was allowed to see me weak. It not longer bothered me much, if bother was even the right word.

I watched as Gareth poured a goblet of wine, then upended the vial of medicine into it. He came over to where I stood, leaning up against the bedpost much as I had earlier, and offered it to me. I felt odd, taking it and raising it to my lips, knowing that the contents would render me more or less helpless. I met his eyes as I swallowed, and knew he was thinking along the same lines though. Something heated moved slowly between us - not quite arousal (not yet), but something similar. I took another long drink and tried to not grimace at the bitter taste.

“I know you don’t like the way this stuff makes you feel…” said Gareth, nodding at the goblet, beginning to feel out what we both wanted here.

I shrugged, carefully considered what I wanted to say, then caught his hand and simply pushed the tangle of emotions at him. Yes I hated being rendered weak and useless, but if Gareth was the only one around it _did things_ to me. I wanted this - wanted to see where this went. Gareth offered me a gentle smile, but wasn’t entirely comfortable with the direction of my thoughts. “I don’t want to...unwittingly take advantage of you,” he said slowly, “Because God knows I _want_ you, but…”

“You won’t,” I assured him, completely confident in that fact, “For one thing, I do want you and I trust you. For another, you’ll be able to _feel_ if I change my mind, right?”

“...true,” he agreed slowly, and I could sense his gradual acceptance and assent. “I’m not making any promises, mind you,” he added firmly, drawing a chuckle from me because Gareth trying to be firm and intimidating was always adorable. He narrowed his eyes at me, trying to maintain his seriousness - but then the facade cracked and he grinned, shaking his head at me a little.

I took a deep breath and downed the rest of the drugged wine in a single gulp. It was a bit like intentionally drinking poison (albeit poison that I knew wouldn’t kill me). Gareth took the goblet from me, mentally laughing a little at my thought because he had been thinking along the same lines - that he was _drugging_ me, and that was strange but not as bad as it should have been. We shared a smile and on an impulse I said aloud, “I love how strong our bond is getting, even if it is a little...overwhelming sometimes.”

“Too much information all at once?” he offered.

“Sort of. Occasionally,” I admitted, then noticed that my mind was always going a bit fuzzy around the edges.

Gareth smirked at me. “Let’s you get you out of those clothes before you fall over.”

For the second time in just a few hours, Gareth helped me undress. His gentle teasing continued as well, and I found myself responding to it, though through the exhaustion and the drugs all I could dredge up was a warm smile. Luckily, I knew he was perfectly aware of the desire beginning to curl low in my gut, an echo of his own.  

Gareth unlaced my doublet and shirt, standing closer to me than strictly necessary as he stripped them over my head. Then he stepped back and looked me up and down for a moment before telling me to lie down. I didn’t bother to argue, understanding what he intended, but when I tried to move closer to the head of the bed I found that my balance had already been robbed from me. Gareth caught me and helped me, laying me back gently against the pillows. I bit my lip, holding back my instinctive protest that I was _fine_ and I could do this. I couldn’t, and what was more I rather liked the feeling of Gareth’s hands behind my shoulders as he lowered me down, then on my legs as he removed my boots and started undoing the laces on my breeches. (My body was certainly interested in the proceedings).

I blinked slowly, muscles gradually going lax as the room tilted and spun sluggishly. I should have hated this, but instead I found myself enjoying it because Gareth was there taking care of me. I was helpless and weak, but with his presence that suddenly wasn’t all bad.  Like this, I could give myself over to his protection, much as I did on the occasions when I let him take charge in bed. There was something freeing and calming about simply trusting that he was there and would make sure everything was alright. I closed my eyes and let myself drift in warm half-sleep. A year ago I had not had the words for this, when I had lain in bed, drugged after my fight with Madoc, and tried to understand why I had minded-but-not-minded Gareth seeing me like that.

Gareth too was seeing parallels between this and the incident a year ago. He was enjoying this just as much as I was, though he felt a bit guilty for that since I was in fact injured. I tried to let him know that I understood and did not mind. _At all_. Given that he gave me a crooked smile, I assumed that I was at least partly successful.

I watched blearily as Gareth undressed and stowed away our Court finery, then pulled on one of my shirts to sleep in. Possessiveness stirred in my chest, and I felt a warm flicker of lust curl in the pit of my stomach, growing out of the heat that had been building between us ever since he handed me the drugged wine. When Gareth curled into bed beside me, I reached over and tried to pull him closer, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated with exhaustion and medicine. He understood what I wanted though, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of my mouth. I groaned, desire suddenly flaring between us.

We kissed slowly for a minute or two, passion building. I knew I was being clumsy and inept, but Gareth didn’t mind. In fact, it reminded him of our first night together in a way that he was finding thoroughly enjoyable and endearing. Except this time I wasn’t nervous, or afraid of taking advantage of him. Nor was I emotionally distraught as I had been then. I was, rather, exactly where I wanted to be.

At that thought, Gareth broke our kiss to giggle, resting his forehead on my collar bone. I ran one hand clumsily through his hair and down his back. “I want you,” I managed, pleased that I was coherent enough that he words did not come out slurred or mumbled. (At least, I didn’t think they did.) I could _feel_ how much Gareth wanted me, his arousal pressing hard into my thigh - the uninjured one, of course.

“I don’t want to hurt, you, Lance,” Gareth gasped, “And I don’t want to risk tearing those stitches.” We both flushed and laughed at the thought of trying to explain _that_ to Gaius (not to mention the _endless_ teasing that Arthur and Guin were sure to subject us too). I groaned in frustration and pulled him closer, hands grasping at his firm ass as I caught him in another sloppy kiss.

“Please. Gods, Gareth, _please_.” I would never admit to begging, but, well…

“Fine, fine,” panted my lover, disentangling us slightly, “But there is no way in hell I’m fucking you when you’re hurt.”

I may have pouted a little at that, but Gareth was already slipping down my body, making it abundantly clear what he had in mind. I bit down on my fist to keep from crying out in pleasure, head thrown back, spine arching as Gareth settled himself between my legs and his lips closed around my throbbing cock. _Damn_ he was good at this, I thought, as I did every time that he pleasured me with his mouth.

Gareth chuckled a little, the vibrations making my knees go weak and my already lax muscles turn to jelly. _Holy fuck_. I could no longer tell if the spinning room and warm fuzziness in my head were from the drugged wine or the sex or both (probably both); I was floating in a perfect haze of pleasure and I never wanted it to end. Happily, my extremely talented lover actually managed to draw this out for quite some time - he was taking a great deal of pleasure himself in having reduced me to incoherent babbling, a state I never reached when in full possession of my faculties. I felt vaguely embarrassed, but was mostly just happily drowning in the sensations.

When I finally came, I think actually passed out for a moment - my vision whited out, certainly. I was vaguely aware of Gareth getting up briefly and getting a glass of water. When he climbed back into bed I tried to offer to return the favor, but Gareth merely laughed gently and hushed me. “You’re going to fall asleep any moment; I can wait until morning.” I opened my mouth to protest - and was asleep before the words passed my lips.

*  *  *  *

I watched Lancelot sleep, a feeling of tenderness toward him so profound that it was almost painful. I had done this before, that first night, nearly a year ago now, when we had finally admitted how we felt about each other - though only after a fight, his nightmare, and a long tearful conversation about his past. Everything I had enjoyed about that night had, up to this point, been a sort of guilty pleasure. I had _liked_ seeing Lancelot vulnerable - weak and a little addled from the medicine. I had liked the way he had gone boneless under me when we had finally made love that night. But I had also felt guilty; I knew I had not taken advantage of him, since by the time we got around to the lovemaking it had been many hours since he had been given the draught for the pain, but that did not alleviate the voice in the back of my head that said that there was something wrong with me for wanting to see him like that again. Now I had, and I knew that he enjoyed it too, and the relief unwound a knot of tension in my chest. It wasn’t as if we could make this a usual thing, and I would not necessarily want too, but I could sense how much Lancelot had enjoyed it, basking in the same sensations that I liked watching him experience.

Tonight had been perfect in every regard except two. On a serious note, I hated that he was indeed injured. From a less serious but more immediate (in my mind) perspective, my cock had been left hard, throbbing, and unattended. I fully intended to let Lancelot pleasure me in the morning (if he felt up to it), but in the meantime I rolled onto my back and took myself in my hand. It was easy enough to bring myself off to memories of Lance’s glazed eyes gazing up at me adoringly, the way he had gone limp and weak in my arms, and his uncharacteristic cries of pleasure - I would remember the sound of him _begging_ for a good long time. I came with a sigh and a smile, and had soon followed my lover into a deep, peaceful rest.  

 

I woke slowly in the morning. It was a lovely and rare treat, and I savored it, snuggling down into the soft blankets and sinfully comfortable mattress. Gradually, memories of the previous day returned, and I came more fully awake with a groan and muttered _fuck_. Beside me, Lancelot was still deeply unconscious, so I slipped carefully out of bed, put on pair of breeches, and went out to send a page for breakfast - something that would keep.

As I waited in the main room for the lad to return, Guinevere appeared, already arrayed for the day in an elegant grown, with her hair done up and her dragon coronet perched on her brow.  I sketched a little bow in her direction. Whereas I still found the King somewhat intimidating and overwhelming, the Queen and I were slowly coming to an understanding. I doubted I would ever be as comfortable around her as Lancelot and some of the others were, but we happened to share a similar sense of humor, and we made a good team. She smiled wryly at my casual obsequience - amused because I insisted on the formality and because I was mocking my own insistence upon it, as I often did with her now - then asked, “How is Lancelot?”    

“Resting.”

“Good. Arthur and I have arranged for some of us, including Lynette, to meet for lunch, compare notes, and make some decisions about how to handle Ambrosius. I believe Cei has begun getting some information from his sources, and he’s itching to share it; but Arthur had other meetings this morning, including with the messenger from Caradoc and I thought it best to let Lancelot rest as much as possible.”

“Thank you,” I said, perhaps more emphatically than strictly necessary. She smiled warmly, and just then the page returned with a tray of fruits and fresh scones. “We’ll see you for lunch. Are we meeting in the study?”

“Arthur thought we would use the Round Table chamber, actually. It would get a bit cramped in the study with everyone there.”

I nodded, made a mental note, and then retreated to the room I shared with Lancelot.

Lancelot was still sleeping, but as I set the tray down on the bedside table and crawled back into bed he stirred somewhat. Recalling that he still ‘owed’ me from the night before, I leaned over him, cradled his neck in one hand, and kissed him long and slow. Lancelot came awake with a sigh that turned into a low moan when I licked into his mouth before pulling back. “That’s a nice way to wake up,” he mumbled, voice still deep and rough with sleep, eyes still closed. But he was smiling, a gentle, almost angelic expression that was rare indeed. Once again I felt an almost painful pang of affection, just as I had the night before.

“I have breakfast for us,” I told him, sitting up. He grumbled and began to roll onto his side, only to wince and freeze. “Sore?” I asked.

“Fuck. Yes. Ow.”

I bit back a laugh at the undignified, barely coherent stream of words, and the annoyed frown that crossed his face. “Do you want to sit up, having something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” he said. But he let me help him out of bed so he could wash his face and test his leg. It bore his weight, though only with some protest based on his grumbling and the faint echo of an ache in my own thigh. I elected not to mention that just now; Lancelot was not awake enough to deal with the realization that I could feel some of his pain - a new but not wholly unexpected development in our increasingly close bond. “Are we late for anything?” he asked, rubbing a towel over his face as if he could scrub away the sleepiness that remained from a long rest and the effects of the pain relieving draught he had taken the night before.

“No, we have a meeting at noon to discuss the intelligence we have gathered on Ambrosius, but until then,” here I smiled and shifted from serious to teasing, warm humor and affection flowing along our bond,  “Until then the only things you need to do are eat breakfast, get dressed, and make love to me - not necessarily in that order.”

“Ah yes that’s right,” my lover responded, the same emotions coloring his tone and echoing back at me through our emotions, “I seem to recall something about me owing you for last night.”

“Mm-hm.”

He turned so he could look at me, setting aside the towel and crossing his arms over his chest, for once gloriously un-self-conscious of his own nakedness. “And did you have something in particular in mind?”

I _wanted_ him to press me down into the bed and fuck me - but that wasn’t going to happen with his leg sore, and the need to be careful of the stitches. Still, we could be creative about it, I thought. Something of my desires must have been conveyed to Lancelot by our bond (or he simply knew me too well, possibly both), for his smile turned vaguely predatory, and he said, “I have an idea...if you’re willing to do as I say?”

I could sense something of what he intended. He could not physically overpower me the way I wanted, but he could still take charge and give me the sensation of surrender that I was craving just then. He could if I let him, that was. I was nodding my eager agreement almost before he had finished speaking.

Lancelot looked me up and down, appraising, but did not immediately say anything. Instead, he pushed an _idea_ at me, a reminder that he was not only a Knight but a _king_ , and I was a serf - talented and respected but still as low-born as they came. I shuddered pleasantly, anticipation sliding down my spine and beginning to pool in the pit of my stomach. I was half tempted to sink to my knees right there - but I waited for him to tell me what to do instead, excited for this new game and the many possibilities it presented.

*  *  *  *

I shifted my weight a little, taking pressure off my injured leg, and considered Gareth. His pupils were already blown wide with anticipation and desire, and I could sense his rising passion. He wanted this - badly. Oddly, with all the things we had done in the bedroom, we had yet to really explore the idea of me giving him orders. I had done it a few times in the context of other things, but this time it was the whole point, and that was new and exciting (especially for him). I left him hanging for a few heartbeats longer, then said imperiously, “Get on the bed.” He scrambled to obey, so gratifyingly eager that I nearly laughed, though that surely would not have been appreciated. “Lie on your back,” I added, almost as an afterthought, though in reality I had already mentally planned out most of what I wanted to do. Hopefully it would not leak along our bond and ruin the surprise, but that was not main concern right now.

Gareth stretched out on his back, fidgeting a little, unsure what to do since I had not given him detailed instructions. I limped carefully over to stand at the end of the bed, placing my hands on the sturdy mahogany footboard and using it to take some of my weight. From here I thought I could watch comfortably for some time - which was precisely my intention. I stayed quiet just long enough for Gareth to register that I was indeed _watching,_ then put him out of his misery, so to speak, by giving him another instruction: “Put your hands behind your head.” He did so immediately, and I could _feel_ him relax, sinking into a place where all that existed was us and the anticipation of my next instruction. I had freed him from needing to think about anything; he just had to listen and obey. Gareth was a strong-willed man, but I understood well enough the pleasure of giving that up in the bedroom - I had done the same the night before in a different way.

Focussing again on the task at hand, I let my gaze trail over my lover’s body, taking in the details, letting him _know_ that I was looking. “You’re so beautiful,” I said, almost without meaning too, then, seeing his cock twitch under my observation, went on, teasing gently, “Such a deceptively little thing - but you hide plenty of muscle under your armor and court clothes, don’t you?” It was a rhetorical question, and I continued without giving him any opportunity to answer, “Look at you. I remember how you got that scar on your ribs, and I gave you the one on your forearm there.” I didn’t need to elaborate, we both knew what I was referring to. And anyway, that wasn’t the point. “Do you like this, hm? Your cock is certainly interested enough I’d say.” Gareth flushed deeply at that, but only got harder. I swallowed a laugh, said sternly, “Touch yourself - but only with your left hand. Leave the right one where it is.”

He did as instructed, and I took my time admiring the picture before me. With one arm still behind his head, his put the muscles in his upper body on display, and arched his back slightly. With his other hand he stroked himself firmly but a little clumsily, not used to using his off hand for this activity. As the pleasure built, his knees fell open wantonly, legs spreading and twitching a little. I waited until he was biting his lip, pleasure almost at a crescendo, then commanded, “Don’t come. I’ll tell you when you can come, and it won’t be for some time yet.”

Gareth moaned, throwing his head back, his whole body tensing as he fought to obey. I admired the line of his throat for a moment, then took pity on him. “Stop touching your cock. Keep touching yourself - anywhere but there.” He actually whined, a little high pitched sound in the back of his throat, but it never occurred to him to disobey. I bit my lip and swallowed down my own desire, which was rising as much from his unquestioning, trusting obedience as from the beautiful image he presented.

I watched for a few more minutes as Gareth trailed his elegant fingers up his stomach and across his chest, pausing to play with his nipples before reaching down to stroke his thighs. I watched closely, noting the things he did, some of which I had not previously known he liked; I’d remember this for the next time we made love - once my blasted leg was better.

“Enough,” I said, and he froze immediately. I left him there for a few long moments as I made my way around to the edge of the bed. “Come over to this edge and lie face down.” I watched as a shudder ran through his body, and my own cock twitched in an echo of his desire. I opened the drawer of the bedside table loudly; I wanted him to hear and know what I was reaching for, surprising myself a bit with my own deviousness. I coated my fingers in lavender scented oil, and slid them between his firm, well-muscled cheeks, pressed firmly.

I teased Gareth for a long while before slipping my fingers inside of him. Even then I took my own sweet time, circling the place that would bring him the most pleasure. When I did finally drag my fingertips over it, I reminded him at the same time, “Don’t come until I tell you.” He groaned and writhed against the mattress. “Understand?” I demanded, “Tell me you understand.”

Gareth moaned deep in his throat, but managed to choke out the words, “I understand.”

I tormented him a few moments longer, then stilled my fingers. He whimpered, actually _whimpered_. “Do you think you could come like this?” I asked, though I had no real intention of making him do that. Gareth merely mumbled something incomprehensible. I twisted my fingers once, slowly, watching the way muscles rippled along his back and in his thighs in response to the stimulation. He was beautiful like this, and though I did not say it out loud I could tell that the thought made its way along our bond. I toyed with the idea of drawing this out further, but decided that would be unfair. Perhaps next time.

Deliberately and with all my knowledge of Gareth’s body that I had acquired over the last months, I brought him close to the edge again - the fingers of one hand worrying the place inside him, the fingers of the other trailing featherlight up the insides of his legs before tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting and pulling just a little, just enough that he could not escape the feeling. His whole body was trembling now, just on the edge of release but held back by his own will power - all because I had asked. I smiled a little, a thrill of power going through me, then leaned down and kissed the shell of his ear. And finally, finally I whispered, “Come for me now, love.” He did, with a soft, almost pained cry of pleasure, muscles convulsing as he was wracked by the powerful orgasm. The backwash along our bond was enough to make my knees go weak as well, but I stayed perfectly still until the aftershocks had stopped moving through him. Only then did I gently remove my fingers, and press a kiss to his shoulder blade.

“You did perfect, love,” I told him. My repeated use of an endearment was, admittedly, uncharacteristic. But he more than deserved it, and I wanted to convey verbally and not just through our bond how much this - he - meant to me. Gareth merely groaned in response to my words, still floating on a wave of pleasure.

I fetched a cloth and dampened it with warm water, then carefully encouraged Gareth onto his back so I could gently clean away the evidence our little game. He flopped bonelessly on the bed, one ankle tucked behind his other knee, arms thrown out to the sides. I felt a sudden, almost overwhelming surge of protectiveness. So strong, in fact, that it brought his eyes open. He squinted at me blearily, then smiled a little. “Love you too, Lance,” he murmured. I flushed slightly, almost embarrassed that he had been witness to so much raw emotion. Gareth reached out a hand in my general direction. “Come here. I want cuddles, and if you hold me I’ll get you off.” My cock throbbed, hard from watching Gareth’s beautiful pleasure, and I got carefully onto the bed with no comment.

It took us a moment to arrange ourselves in such a way that I could hold Gareth without any pressure on the outside of my leg where the boar’s tusk had grazed me the day before, but we soon settled down into a comfortable tangle of limbs, and true to his word Gareth's’ clever fingers circled my cock and cupped my balls, expertly encouraging a very satisfying orgasm from my body.

We kissed languidly for a while, and dozed for a short time after that, then Gareth sighed heavily and said, “I suppose we had best get up and get dressed. We need to meet the others for lunch soon.”

I hummed my agreement, then asked, “So...did you enjoy that? What we just did?”

“Very, very much, as I’m sure you could tell.”

“I could, but I still like hearing you say it. Is there anything you would change if we did it again?”

He considered very briefly, then said, “Draw it out longer - make me pleasure you in the middle, after you’ve made me get myself hard but before you touch me.”

I shook my head in amused disbelief, but filed away that idea for a late date. In the meantime, unfortunately, we had a meeting to attend, and a potential rebellion to head off.


	7. Chapter 6: Clarity and Misperceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6: Clarity and Misperception (and can you tell the difference?)
> 
> The pieces are coming together, but not everyone sees things in quite the same light.
> 
> May 5th NOTE/UPDATE: I recalled after I posted this chapter that I had been saving the name "Brangaine" for a future character. So I have gone and changed the name of Guinevere's chief lady-in-waiting to "Laudine".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to post. My partner was in town for a week, and since we aren't usually in the same place for very long writing took a back seat for a while. And then my laptop broke. I still don't have it back, so formatting and editing may be a little off as I'm working on a borrowed device. 
> 
> Anyway, we are now a chapter or two away from getting to the point where the plot really takes off - a scene I've had planned for honestly probably at least a year (oops). I'm sorry if things have moved along somewhat slowly thus far (as the author I really can't tell because I know where it's going to so it always feels slow to me). There are a lot of moving pieces to this plot, and I'm trying to bring everything into sync. 
> 
> (Also, apparently misperception isn't actually a word? My spellcheck certainly hates it, but I like it so too bad lol)

Entering the chamber that held the Round Table, I understood why the Queen had said that the study would be cramped. In addition to the King, Guinevere, Lancelot, and I, Gawain and Cei were present, which was not surprising. Tristan was there too, and the Orkney twins, which was slightly more irregular but a good indication that this was going to be a serious strategy meeting, not a simple matter of catching each other up on information. What really caught my attention though was the presence of both Lynette and Guinevere’s chief lady-in-waiting, Laudine. The latter I knew peripherally to be a key part of our intelligence gathering apparatus around the castle - between her and Cei there was probably _nothing_ that happened within the citadel that was unaccounted for - but I found it especially interesting that Lynette was here.

The ten of us took seats around the table, filling nearly all of it. I could not help but notice the way Lynette and Laudine looked around in vague awe, seemed a little uncertain about joining us. I offered them a gentle smile, knowing well enough how they felt, for I had felt the same during my first weeks as a Knight; it was both powerful and humbling to sit at that table. Even now I could not help but shift a little, fighting off the brief sensation of awkwardness that came with the knowledge that I was sitting equal with no less than two kings, two queens, and three princes, including a the Crown Prince. The only three people who were not royalty were a Grand Duchess (Laudine), the King’s foster brother - and me.

Beside me, Lancelot frowned a little at the direction of my thoughts, until he realized that I did not particularly mind. I did note the way he raised his eyes and looked around the banners which hung on the walls - one was the King’s Dragon, the others were for each of the Knights, except for me since I had no family crest. That _pained_ Lancelot, I could feel the echoing pang in my own chest, but now was not the time for that sort of sentimentality.

The King placed his hands palm down on the table, and said simply, “We’re all here to talk about my cousin. Some of you know more than others about what is going on, but the point of this meeting is to ensure we’re all on the same page, and to decide what we do next, because I for one do not want to find myself fighting a civil war this winter.” Lynette, Tristan, and the twins - those present who had not to this point been privy to most of the drama - all paled somewhat at that statement.

With that introduction, the discussion was bound to be somber. Arthur had Tristan begin by relating what  he had told us a couple of weeks previously when he had first returned to Court. It sounded much more sinister now, in the context of what else we knew. Everyone listened intently to his tale of peasants, merchants, and lords alike using the same language to criticise the King. Complaints about taxes and levies were normal, but these had clearly all originated from the same source - a source we now suspected to be the King’s cousin.

After that, I described the conversation I had had with two low-ranking members of Ambrosius' guard who had been only too happy to talk about their master once they had a bit to drink. I carefully recounted what they had said about extra 'patrols' along the southern border, and how it was on open secret that they were not mere patrols. "In light of the messenger who arrived last night during dinner, I suppose we can draw the logical conclusion that those patrols have in fact been raids to sow dissent and destabilize Mark's Kingdom. I glanced a little self-consciously at Lance, confident of my assessment but still grateful when he nodded his support of it.

“That's not all either," he added, then gestured for me to go on.

“The other key point to come from that discussion was that troops have been arriving from Ambrosius’  
allies to train with his own men." A murmur of discontent went around the table at that particularly concerning detail.

Alone it was far from damning, but then Cei spoke up. “In the last two days I've gotten reports from a number of my contacts, including one in Ambrosius' household and another in Aquae Sulis proper." Aquae Sulis was the old Roman town where Ambrosius had his seat of power. "Those contacts to a person confirm what Tristan and Gareth have said. Moreover, I heard from one of Lancelot's spies-"

“-oh so yours are 'contacts' and mine are 'spies'?" grumbled my lover.

Cei smirked but continued without otherwise acknowledging the comment, " -whom Lancelot had asked to do some digging, and we now have a sense of just who Ambrosius' allies are." Here he turned toward the King and said grimly, "It's not an encouraging list, I'm afraid. Lords Hueil and Melwas are both involved, and there are rumors that Bishop Patricius is sending him money. We know for certain that the Bishop has visited three times in the last year. And it seems that stirrings against you are particularly prevalent near his monastery too. The spy suggested that perhaps some of the travelling priests based out of the monastery are spreading more than just the gospel on the Bishop's orders."

"It wouldn't surprise me," sighed the King, "He's hated me for years. He could just barely tolerate the  
fact that I wouldn't join his Church or support his God, but he'll never forgive me for taxing the Church   
during the Saxon wars." Indeed, the Bishop had been as much of a thorn in Arthur's side as Ambrosius   
was. The two of them together, plus Hueil and Melwas, who both had grudges against the Pendragon line,   
was a sobering thought indeed.

After we all took a moment to process that, Guinevere and Laudine added a few details - the strength  
of Ambrosius' forces, the type of training the troops were engaging in - and closed by relating what one of the men had boasted to Laudine: "Ambrosius is a powerful man now, but he has his sights set on a much   
grander title - and when that happens we'll all be well rewarded."

The King blew out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair. However, it was Gawain who spoke. "Well, that's rather damning, isn't it?" It was an entirely rhetorical question, and we all knew it.

"The question," said the Queen slowly, "Is whether Ambrosius planning to overthrow _you_ , or to overthrow _Mark_?"

"That’s what we’re going to have to find out," murmured the King, staring at the tabletop without  
actually seeing it.

As always, Cai cut straight to the point. "That's going to require someone close to him. Thus far, it  
seems that everyone, despite being rather chatty, is vague on the details. I suspect that is because they   
don't actually know. Ambrosius is guarding his plan closely."

Of course, the trouble was _how_ to get someone that close to Ambrosius.

After an hour or so of circular discussion on this topic, Guinevere finally put her foot down - or rather, placed both hands firmly palm-down on the table, and said in a tone which brooked no argument, "Enough. We are making no progress on this, we've been here for hours, and we all have things to do this afternoon. I propose we resume this conversation tomorrow." We all agreed, with varying degrees of reluctance.

As everyone was getting to their feet and sorting out their plans for lunch and the rest of the days the King caught my attention and asked me to attend audiences with him. Of course, I remembered belatedly, that Lancelot was supposed to rest his leg. Thus, I would be acting as King’s Champion today rather than Lancelot. Guinevere suggested that, if Lancelot felt up to it, he could spend the afternoon with her, since he would be able to sit.  My lover grumbled a little, but agreed.

“Switching places for the day should be interesting,” I offered with a weak laugh, trying (and largely failing) to lighten the mood. It did earn me a smile from Lancelot though. And then we dispersed.

*  *  *  *

As the meeting broke up, l sidled over to Cei, catching him just before he followed Arthur and Gareth out the door." Do you have a moment?"

“ _A_ moment, yes..." he agreed somewhat reluctantly.

Cei was a busy man, so I said directly. “It seems as if that there is... additional interest in me again. And the staring and whispering reminds me of when people thought I was sleeping with Guinevere. I was wondering if those rumors had reappeared, or - Cei, what are you laughing at?"

The big man clapped me on the shoulder and informed me blithely," The Court seems to here  
decided, against all evidence to the contrary, that Arthur is soon going to replace you as King's   
Champion. Damned if I know why, but there it is."

I made an unintelligent (and probably embarrassing) sound of protest. Cei chuckled again and added, "Some think you're too old, some think you've had a falling out with Arthur, and the most popular assumption is that Gareth is angling to replace you out of either spite or ambition." With that Cei gave me a vaguely sympathetic look and hurried out the door.

 _Bloody hell,_ I thought grumpily. And now, because I was recovering from the injury acquired on the boar hunt, Gareth was going to very visibly be doing my job for the next day or two. Fucking _perfect_.

Still grumbling to myself, I went to find Guinevere. At the very least I wanted to keep myself busy for the rest of the day. I could not, however, entirely disguise the fact that I was limping, and I felt the knowledge of that (and the assumptions people would inevitably make as a result) eating away at me.

Guinevere was in her solar, meeting with Lynette. Gawain was there as well, which amused me since Gareth had told me he thought Gawain had fallen for Lyonesse’s new queen. “Ah, Lance, said Guin when I entered, “Perfect timing, your input on this issue would be appreciated.”

“And what issue is that?” I enquired, carefully taking a seat.

“Lynette received a letter today suggesting that there is more opposition than previously thought to her taking the throne. Your unique perspective as a military leader, political advisor, and king yourself would be extremely useful, I think. As much as you claim not to be a terribly adept politician, I’ve watched you advise Arthur and manage your own land, even from afar.”

“You needn’t flatter me so,” I muttered, embarrassed.

At the same moment, Lynette asked, “ _King_?”

Gawain chuckled. “Indeed. It always amuses me how many people here in Britain don’t realize, but Lancelot is King of Gaul.”

Lynette turned to stare at me with open curiosity - and, unexpectedly, _respect._ That was not a reaction I was used to. People were often impressed, curious, or openly confused that, though I was a king in my own right, I willing subordinated myself to Arthur, living here in Britain as a powerful but certainly not royal figure. However, she made no comment on this score, and said simply, “I’d appreciate your thoughts. We had just begun discussing the issue. I received a note this morning from my old nursemaid, who still lives in the castle, saying that my uncle has been publicly saying that he should have been King. A few of the councilors have apparently agreed. I doesn’t sound too serious yet, but I’d like to head it off before it becomes serious.”

I nodded slowly, considering what I knew of Lyonesse. “This is your uncle on your father’s side?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Well, he makes a fair point from the perspective that, as I recall, the Lyonesse throne is passed through the male line to the oldest direct male relative. _However_ , you are the one who saved your country, and you are your father’s eldest child. There is plenty of precedence for you to inherit - take Gwynedd, where Guin is from. She inherited from her father. The best suggestion that I can give you is to go home, listen to everyone’s concerns, particularly the common people, take an active role in the rule of your country, and every time someone suggests you shouldn’t be queen, remind them that you are the one who risked your life to get help for Lyonesse. You earned your crown.”

“I’ve been trying to do the first bit of that. I came back here to get help with my army and guards - neither of which really exist right now.”

“And to strike a deal for food since there harvest will be very small,” added Gawain politely.

“Which is vital,” I agreed, “In fact, you’ll need guards if you are to go back safely, and they’ll need to be loyal to you. But we can’t openly supply them since then it will look like Arthur is installing you as his puppet in order to have control of that land.”

Lynette looked appropriately insulted by this, but it clearly came as no surprise to Gawain or Guinevere. “We had briefly discussed that fact a few days ago, but had been focussing on the food issue,” Guinevere noted.

“Does your uncle have a significant fighting force?”

“Not that I know of. He has guards but little else.”

“Does Lyonesse have any traditional allies?” I enquired, mentally casting about for a solution to what was, admittedly, a tricky situation. “Allies dating to before the alliance with the Saxons, that is?”

Gawain made a little “ah” sound, understanding the direction of my thoughts.

It turned out that there were one or two small countries that had indeed been allies of Lyonesse some 20 years earlier. I was impressed that Lynette knew this and told her so, then outlined my plan for her to reach out to those countries, with the support of Arthur as High King, and make arrangements for a temporary guard while her own was rebuilt from scratch. Her current honor guard supplied by Camelot would remain as well.

“And if this doesn’t work,” I concluded, “Then either I will send for some of my men from Gaul, or we will find mercenaries - many are perfectly loyal to a good cause, especially if they are well paid, and payment can be arranged. In fact, if you were to offer the captain a title, and all of them land or some other secure retirement, you would have their _undying_ loyalty. There’s a strong argument to be made for that, in fact.”

Lynette gave me a brilliant smile, and although I was not and never had been attracted to women, I could admit that I could see how Gawain had fallen for her. (And it has become clear during the course of our conversation that he had indeed fallen. Hard.)

“You would do that for me?” she asked, torn between skepticism and gratitude.

“Certainly. And I’m sure if politics allowed it, Gawain would have offered immediately. Unfortunately because he is heir he can’t offer you troops from his lands or it would be seen the same as Arthur doing it.”

She turned to Gawain, “But aren’t your lands in the Orkney’s?”

“I have lands here too. A...precaution in case my father ever sees sense and disowns me.” At her blank look Gawain elaborated, “I’m the oldest son of Lot, King of the Orkney’s, but I’ve lived with Arthur, my uncle, since I was quite young, and since he has no children he named me Heir a few years ago - I have the best claim anyway, he just made it formal so people would stop pestering him. Arthur and my father are enemies. Mortal enemies, on one or two notable occasions in the past, though that was mostly due to my mother’s scheming. So we keep expecting my father - or more likely my mother - to decide that if I’m Heir here I shouldn’t be Heir there as well. They _are_ two entirely different countries so in point of fact I probably should only be heir in one of them - my personal preference being here, mind you. And I have younger brothers, including Agravaine, who, unlike Gaheris and Geraint and I, has always lived in the Orkneys. It seems likely that when my father dies, regardless of my official status, Agravaine will make a bid for the Orkney throne, and I’ll have to decide whether or not I want to fight him over it.” Realizing that he had gotten somewhat off topic, Gawain shook himself and finished somewhat awkwardly, “But that’s neither here nor there at the moment, sorry.”

Lynette shook her head slowly. “I keep forgetting how insulated we were in Lyonesse; I had not realized or heard about any of that until I came here to Camelot.”

“Well you’re catching on admirably quickly,” complimented (flirted) Gawain. Guinevere and I shared a knowing look.

Lynette decided that she preferred the idea of hiring mercenaries and tying them to the land to ensure they’re loyalty (“Better than relying on the good will of allies we haven’t spoken to in two decades,” she observed), and the four of us spent a little time discussing the details before deciding that we should get Arthur’s unofficial approval before proceeding further. Shortly thereafter, Guinevere was called away to handle something to do with household accounts, and Gawain decided to sit in on the rest of the King’s audiences. Lynette paused as she too got up to leave, and looked at me carefully. “You and the Queen are...very close, aren’t you?”

“We’ve been good friends for many years,” I replied, then, because I knew where this was going, “But we’ve never been lovers.”

“Oh. I-”

“Everyone wonders. There’s been so many rumors that I can’t really blame anyone anymore. But no, we’ve never been lovers - not even close.” Lynette knew about Gareth and I, having guessed not long after we met the previous spring, so I felt comfortable sending a pointed, lopsided smile her way. It earned me a grin and little giggle.

“Alright, good point,” she agreed.

Left alone, I got stiffly to my feet, leg twinging badly, and decided that I had earned a break. I limped back up to the Royal Suite, intending to sit down and read the most recent batch of notes from my regent in Gaul. However, having laid down on the bed to rest my leg a moment, I was soon sound asleep.

*  *  *  *

I had decidedly mixed feelings about occupying Lancelot’s place to the left of the King’s Throne as he took his seat to begin an afternoon of audiences. On the one hand, I was certainly proud to be here, to stand in pride of place at the King’s shoulder, wearing my red cloak as a Knight of the Round Table. It was everything eight-year-old me could have imagined and more. On the other hand, it felt _wrong_ to replace Lancelot, event temporarily, and particularly when I knew he was just upstairs. I was an intruder in his beloved job - an usurper, some might say, for all that it was a decidedly temporary arrangement and not of my making.

Since becoming Queen’s Champion I had gathered a fair amount of experience being stared at by rooms full of people - usually with blatant curiosity. I could handle that. But as the room began to fill with courtiers and commoners alike, the gazes settled on me with a new, heavier weight. Perhaps it was because I was not whom they expected to see, or perhaps it was merely my own perception of the situation, but I sensed that there was more than innocent curiosity in the many pairs of eyes that stared at me. And was it my imagination or were there whispers as well? I tried to shrug off the feeling of being examined by dozens of pairs of eyes, and instead focused on doing my bloody job. Yes, the King should, by rights, be perfectly safe here in the heart of Camelot, but there had been unexpected assassination attempts before and I sure as hell wasn’t going to let my guard down with Ambrosius Aurelianus here, scheming away to steal _someone’s_ throne.

It was a bit of a relief to see that not only Cei, but Tristan, Dinadin, the the Orkney twins were all in attendance, along with half a dozen other knights, including Lionel and Lucan, two of my contemporaries whom I respected and was friendly with (in large part because neither openly resented my quick advancement beyond their station). The throne room always had guards, of course, and doubly so when the King was in attendance, but it was nice to see my fellow knights present as well, an unofficial and unplanned additional honor guard of sorts, all armed far more heavily than the capitol of a peaceful land required.

I listened with half an ear to the audiences, and focused most of my attention on cataloguing the movements and mood of the crowd. It was exhausting and stressful, and I did not envy the hours I knew Lance spent like this on a regular basis. No, I certainly was in no rush to take the job of King’s Champion permanently. Not at all.

As evening approached, the light in the hall taking on a golden hue, my attention was caught by the conversation which the King was having with a woman from the farmland to the east of Camelot. It was her accent which struck me as she talked about the dramas of a small village - it sounded like _home_.

I didn’t miss the tiny village where I was born, or the local lord, who had been cruel and awful. I didn’t even really miss my family since I had left at a young age and made my own place for myself here in Camelot. But once in a while something would strike me and remind (pleasantly) me of that early part of my childhood. Without pausing in my careful perusal of the people in the room, I listened more closely to this conversation rather than letting the noise flow past me as I had been.

The woman was a little past middle age, her grey hair tied back in a knot, her much patched skirt clutched nervously between her hands as she spoke to the King about the trouble that had brought her all the way to Camelot. The lord’s son had a taste for the young girls, apparently, and had been targeting those of a certain age in the woman’s village. Of course, the lord wouldn’t do anything about it, and the father who had gone to him to complain had come away beaten bloody for speaking against the family. “A few of us pooled our money so I could come tell you, Sire. Most of the menfolk and some of th’other women think ‘tis a waste of time, but we had to try something. My husband owns the mill and could spare me for a while, so that is why I came...”

Arthur was nodding gravely. He heard complaints like this on occasion - probably would have heard them more if people were less afraid to come to him. There was a system for dealing with things like this, and the King explained that he would ensure that a travelling magistrate visited the village soon, forewarned of what to look for. Her name would not be involved, an attempt to keep her somewhat insulated from repercussions. It wasn’t foolproof, but the look of relief on the woman’s face said that she was just happy that _something_ was being done. I had to resist a sudden and surprisingly powerful impulse to go to her, not only to reassure her that things would be well taken-care of, but to ask how her family was and how the spring planting had gone. She was probably about the age my mother would have been if I still knew my mother at all.

I was pulled from my thoughts by the King turning to me and saying, “Gareth, is there anything I’ve overlooked? You know more about that part of the country, having lived there.”

I blinked and stammered for a moment, prevaricating, “Well, it’s been an awfully long time, Sire. I think the usual system works well, particularly if she is repaid the price of her travel here and back.” This was typical, but the King had forgotten to mention it and I knew how much stress that would relieve from a person of her station. After another moment of thought, I added, “Perhaps this would also be a good time to remind people that serfs are allowed to move under certain conditions - and this very much is one of them. Ideally, if affected families leave, it will help convince the lord to abide by the magistrate’s decision…” It was weak, but it was what I could offer. In a perfect world, we could remove the lord’s family altogether, but the King didn’t need anyone else inciting rebellion while his cousin was at it.

The woman, however, beamed at me like I had given her a valuable gift. “It’s true then that serf’s can leave? I mean - I’m not one, myself. That’s part of why I came. But...I’ll certainly take that message back, m’lord. I know plenty who will be relieved to hear it.”

I almost winced at the title, but successfully suppressed the urge. “My pleasure, ma’am,” I replied, offering an honorific and a polite little nod of my own.

The King looked between us for a moment, blue eyes warm but the expression in them shrewd, then he said, “Gareth, I’m nearly finished with audiences for the day. Cei or Tristan can keep an eye on me while I wrap things up here. Why don’t you take Ada here to the treasurer and reimburse her for her travel, the amount at your discretion; then write out a note to the magistrate. You have my permission to make other arrangements as necessary.”

I blinked in surprise, a weight of responsibility settling in my chest, and nodded. “My pleasure, Sire.” Turning to Ada I gestured for her to follow me toward one of the doors that led off the dais, and said simply, “Ma’am.” She looked as surprised and uncomfortable as I did, but gathered her wits enough to curtsy deeply and follow me into the passage. An oppressive silence hung over us until I had the presence of mind to say, “You know, the King sent me with you because I was born in a village much like yours. I’m...not noble by birth. In fact, I was serf.”

Ada gave me a startled look, then beamed at me, “Well an’ lookit you now, a Knight of the Round Table.”

“Indeed,” I laughed, “I think about it often, how...how strange my life has been, in some senses.”

“If I tell the boys back home about you it’ll only fuel their desire to run away an’ seek glory in the King’s Army.”

I huffed. “Best not do that, then. There’s usually little enough glory in warfare, I’m afraid.”

She hummed her agreement and nodded sagely. We walked in silence a moment until we reached the stairway to the office occupied by the treasurer and his assistants. Cei actually handled most of the significant finances; the position of treasurer was almost purely a clerical one, but important in it’s way as it was his responsibility to pay out salaries to everyone from the household staff to the Knights, and to keep meticulous records for Cei and the Queen. I came here several times a year to receive my stipend for being a Knight, and had come a few times to fetch money when I was travelling on the King’s business, but never before had I come with the authority to simply...demand whatever I deemed necessary. I supposed that to Lancelot having limited Crown Authority as King’s Champion was uninteresting (seeing as he had a crown of his own in Gaul); for me, however, it was a novel and not entirely pleasant experience. Who the hell was I to wield such power, even over a comparatively small thing like this?

I was distracted from this spiral of thoughts and anxiety, by Ada asking politely, “If I may, m’lord, how did you rise from being a serf to a Knight?”

“Please, you needn’t call me that. _Really_. It’s Gareth. Just Gareth. And as to your question…” I have her the abbreviated version of tale as we walked down the passage to the office, finishing just as we reached the door.

I knocked, and waited to hear the call of “Come in!” before entering.

The desk in the front room of the office was currently occupied by one of the Treasurer’s main assistants, a bookish man of about Lancelot’s age with a perpetual skeptical little frown on his face. I swallowed and tried to stand a little straighter, a little more confident, then offered him a smile. “Good afternoon. The King sent me to reimburse this woman for her travels.”

He looked at me closely, and a wondered for a moment if he was going to make a crack about that being a rather lowly job for a Queen’s Champion. But instead he merely nodded politely and asked, “For what amount?”

I turned to Ada. “Did you travel alone?”

“No, m’lord. My nephew came with me. We took a cart that my husband usually uses to transport grain.”

A cart would mean a horse, which meant food for the horse, and I had to assume that they had stayed in inns at least two nights, probably more. She had undoubtedly been here for a couple of days waiting to see the King, and boarding in Camelot was expensive. I did some quick mental math, rounded up, and doubled the number to account for the trip back, then told the treasurer’s assistant. Beside me, Ada winced and opened her mouth, undoubtedly to protest that it was far too much money (because it was far more than she would actually have spent), but the treasurer was already saying, “I’ll fetch that and be back. Is there anything else you need, m’lord?”

I blinked, still unused to be called that, and a bit taken aback by the realization that he had taken my request and presence here entirely at face value. I was a Knight of rank, on an errand for the King. It was an odd feeling. Realizing I had been quiet for a beat too long, I shook my head, smiling politely. No, thank you.”

As soon as the man left the room, Ada turned to me. “That was...extremely generous, m’lord. I-”

“You can pay back the other families who helped you fund the trip here, and any money left over can be used to help the girls who have been hurt by this,” I suggested, refusing to hear her tell me that I shouldn’t give her the money. I was giving her extra for a reason, and I knew that the treasury could well afford it.

She looked at me for a moment, as if wondering if she could argue further, but then merely smiled and shook her head a little in pleased disbelief, muttering, “An’ here I thought I’d be lucky if th’ King even heard me out. Instead you’re all more help th’n I could’ve hoped.”

I recognized the look on her face, having seen it many times when the King did something unexpectedly kind for a commoner. This woman would be undyingly loyal to the Throne until her dying day.

The assistant reappeared and handed over a purse of money. I looked inside, pleased to see that he had doled out the amount in relatively small coins rather than in gold, which would look highly suspicious, and thanked him genuinely. Then I led Ada to another part of the castle where the magistrates had their offices, and helped her describe the situation in detail to a scribe, who would then pass the document on to the official that the King would send to the village under the guise of it being a typical case of a travelling magistrate passing through.

Feeling content with a good day’s work, I retreated to my room to look for Lancelot before supper, the bond we shared giving me a good idea that he was there. Nonetheless, I was somewhat surprised to find him asleep on the bed, still fully dressed, red cloak wrapped about himself. He looked peaceful, though the fact that he was sleeping in the middle of the day indicated to me that yesterday’s injury was taking a significant toll on him. I leaned against the wall by the door and just stared at him for a little while, content and somewhat self-satisfied. Although there were plenty of reasons to worry, I gave myself this time to simply revel in the good things in my life - Lancelot undoubtedly being one of them.

*  *  *  *

I woke slowly, feeling oddly content and pleased. It took me a moment to sort out the fact that the majority of those emotions were in fact emanating from my lover. I opened my eyes slowly, expecting to find him lying on the bed with me, but instead he was halfway across the room, leaning up against the door with his arms crossed casually over his chest and a little half smirk on his face. It was..extremely attractive. I blinked sleepily, rolled onto my back, and stretched carefully, wincing when my leg protested.

“So, what has you in such a good mood?” I asked, voice rough from sleep. Not that Gareth minded.

“You,” he replied, “Well, mostly you.” He then proceeded to tell me about his afternoon, and I found myself smiling as well. Gareth was growing into his role as the future King’s Champion, and I had no doubts at all about his capabilities. But it was still rather adorable to witness the moments when he was still in many ways the spirited common-born boy who had convinced a king to take him on as a knight-in-training - self-assured of his own skills, but amazed at far he had come, amazed that anyone else took him seriously.

Gareth smacked my arm lightly, pulling me from my musings. “Enough of that. Tell me about your day before we have to go to supper.”

He had come closer while I was thinking, laying down on the bed beside me, so I rolled over to face him and put an arm around him, pulling him close for a kiss before murmuring, “I can think of better things to do before supper...”

Gareth laughed. “Absolutely not. We don’t have time for that, and you know as well as I do that once you get out of your clothes you’re not going to want to go to the trouble of dressing again - not when you’re tired and sore. We can have fun _later_ instead. And I’m serious, I want to hear about your day. You were rather enjoying yourself for a while there.”

I sighed and grumbled, but eventually conceded the point, and described Lynette’s situation in great detail. It was the sort of thing that would be useful for Gareth to keep in mind for the future. I sensed that he understood that and was paying close attention as a result.

Unfortunately, by the time I finished, it was time to go down to supper. I groaned little as I stood, my leg seemingly more sore than earlier, then glanced a somewhat self-consciously at Gareth. “Sorry, I just...guess I don’t recover from these things as quickly as I used to…”

“You’re not old,” he said, giving me a ‘don’t you dare start this again’ look, but softening it with a quick kiss and a whispered, “And I’m very much looking forward to getting you back here after supper.” With a touch on my hand he showed me what _exactly_ he had in mind, and I found myself grinning and blushing.

When we stepped out into the common room, however, we found Cei there rather than Guinevere and Arthur. He looked at us oddly for a moment, as if surprised that we had come out of the same room, but Gareth merely smiled blandly and made a comment about comparing notes on our days, and did Cei know where the King and Queen were?

Cei sighed. “The Queen is presently occupied with one of her ladies-in-waiting whose family is apparently trying to marry her off to some undesirable. I gather that she - that the Queen - is being rather possessive, and is currently explaining to the girl’s father that she will be staying here in Camelot. I suspect she may be late to dinner. Gareth, they’re in the small receiving hall if you would like to attend her.”  

He nodded and hurried off at a jog, displeased with the Queen being out of his sight and in a potentially volatile situation. I had trained him well. I turned to Cei with an expectant look. “And Arthur?”

“In the Grand Marshal's office.”

I nodded. That made sense, given the trouble brewing with Ambrosius. The Grand Marshal was by tradition the top military official. Of course, with a warrior-King like Arthur, the position took on more of a secretarial role, a chief of staff of sorts. The man would know our current troop deployments, reserve levels, and whatnot.

I set off in the direction of that office, unable to walk as quickly as I would like since I did not want to risk damaging my leg unnecessarily. Instead, I made an effort to keep my steps even and firm, even though my thigh twinged and ached fiercely. If I could not move quickly I was at least determined not to limp. I rounded a corner near the Marshal’s office and had to stumble to a stop to avoid walking straight into Ambrosius himself.

My hand found the dagger at my hip of its own accord, and I instinctively glanced around. Two of his guards waited further down the hall, but there was no obvious ambush or immediate threat, besides the unpleasant smile on Ambrosius’ face. I collected my wits. “Lord Aurelianus. I...was not expecting to see you here.”

“I, on the other hand, have been looking for you - for an opportunity to speak with you without others hovering about.” I raised one eyebrow in a silent question, and the man went on, his unpleasant smile growing a tad wider. “I am not deaf, Sir Lancelot. I am well aware that your days here as King’s Champion are numbered - everyone knows it. You’re getting rather old for the job, and it sounds as though you’ve done far too good a job training your replacement, that upstart peasant boy that the King so obviously likes. He even asked his advice during audiences today.” I clenched my jaw in order to swallow back the laugh that threatened in my throat. Gods, this man knew nothing about how Arthur operated! He was still talking though, so I made an effort to listen, my face careful blank. “I have a proposal for you. As I’m sure you are aware, I have a claim to the throne as strong as Arthur’s. Come back to Aquae Sulis with me when I leave here, and I will put you in a position of power that uses your considerable skills without relying entirely upon your aging body holding up to the abuse it is currently suffering.” He glanced pointedly at my leg.

I swallowed, feeling a bit like I’d been punched, and not sure whether to laugh or hit the man. It was one thing to know that people were talking about me like this, but it was another thing entirely to have it said to my face. _Your aging body_. Anger tightened my chest and I responded without thinking, “Perhaps you have not heard, but I recently won a tournament, besting the man that you seem to think is about to replace me.”  

Amborsius waved away the words. “You won because he let you. God knows why - probably some misplaced sense of loyalty since you trained him. But now he’s getting a taste of being King’s Champion, and I’m sure that he won’t be content to go back to hovering about the Queen’s shoulder. It’s an insult to him, really, to expect him to - a young and incredibly talented man like that, in the prime of his fighting life.” Ambrosius shifted subtly closer, apparently unconcerned about my white-knuckled grip on my dagger, and added, “Your days here are numbered. I’m merely offering you an attractive alternative. Think about it.”

“You’re a fool if you think I would leave Arthur,” I spat as he began to walk away. Ambrosius paused briefly, but then continued without looking back, and I was left standing in the deserted passageway, shaking with fury and humiliation.

Through the turmoil, I distantly felt Gareth’s sudden concern for me, able to feel my disquiet but not knowing what had caused it. I tried to push at him the feeling that nothing was immediately wrong - no danger, at least. Then Arthur appeared out of the Marshal’s office. He looked at me narrowly. “Are you alright, Lancelot?”

I closed my eyes for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Your cousin is infuriating,” I said by way of explanation, unwilling to divulge the details of our conversation. Fortunately, Arthur knew me well, and knew his cousin, and did not press for details, merely gave my arm a comforting squeeze as he walked past.

“Well, I’ll be sure to keep distance between you two at supper. Which we are, I believe, officially late for.”

I said nothing else as I followed my friend to the Great Hall and out onto the dais. Everyone rose when the King entered, but I fancied that most of the eyes in the room were on _me_ , looking for weaknesses that, for once, were entirely visible - I was tired and pale, and limping in spite of my best efforts.

Guinevere and Gareth had not yet appeared, but Arthur gestured for the first course to be brought without them, an acknowledgement that he had already kept the Court waiting. I sat in my chair and stared blankly at the food on my plate and tried without much success to resist the urge to fantasize about ways to murder Ambrosius.


	8. Plans and Uncertainties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7: Plans and Uncertainties (and where do they meet?)
> 
> A plan for dealing with Ambrosius begins to emerge, but no one likes it - least of all Lancelot and Gareth. And does it really have any chance of working? 
> 
> NOTE: I recalled after I posted chapter 6 that I had been saving the name "Brangaine" for a future character. So I have gone and changed the name of Guinevere's chief lady-in-waiting to "Laudine", borrowed from Cretien de Troyes, because why invent names when I have several hundred years of literature to draw from and mess with? ; ) (In fact, I can't wait to introduce Brangaine because she's one of my favorite characters, but we've got a way to go before then...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the long delay between chapters. My computer broke _twice_ , and I unexpectedly started working more hours. 
> 
> Interestingly, there is a scene in this chapter which I have had planned for...probably a year? It is literally what gave birth to the plan/plot for this entire portion of the story. On a similar note, the plot should pick up pace a bit from here since most of the chapters up to this point have really just been me trying to set up the rest believably. 
> 
> I won't promise to get another chapter up quickly because I'm quite busy for the next couple of weeks and I'm not sure how much time/energy I will have to write. (Sometimes being busy makes me write more, perversely, but I'm not going to bank on that). Feel free to hit that "subscribe" button at the top of the page and you'll get an email from AO3 whenever I _do_ update. 
> 
> As always, drop me a comment if you catch glaring errors in this story. I only edited lightly. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me up to this point : )

I could feel Lancelot’s anger like a band tightening around my ribs. It had come on suddenly and powerfully a few minutes before he and the King had appeared in the Great Hall, and it only took a small amount of focus on my part to ascertain that it was directed at Ambrosius. The King, however, looked perfectly calm. Granted, Arthur was adept at masking his real emotions in public, but I fancied that I knew him well enough now to tell if something tragic had happened. Nonetheless, I fidgetted all through dinner, and let out a little huff or relief when we were finally able to depart, and I could catch up to Lancelot. “What’s wrong?” 

“I…” he gritted his teeth, trying to martial thoughts and words through the seething frustration, “I had a little chat with Ambrosius. He had some... _ opinions  _ about my age and my position as Champion.”

“Ah,” I said, understanding dawning. Whatever Ambrosius had said must have been truly, spectacularly horrid to elicit such a powerful response from Lance, so rather than press for details I simply offered what emotional support I could  as we made our way back up to the suite. By the time we got there, his anger had not significantly dissipated, though it was beginning to morph into a sort of underlying, simmering rage rather than an immediate one.  _ Beginning  _ being the operative word, and I doubted that, between the emotional turmoil and his earlier nap, he would be able to sleep any time soon, though it was already quite late. I recalled that earlier, when he had woken from that nap and wanted to have sex before supper, I had promised him  _ later _ . It was later now - which gave me an idea. 

I paused just inside the door to our room and prodded a bit around the edges of the black ball of outrage seething in Lancelot’s mind, then moved to stand directly in front of him.  I opened myself up more fully to the bond so he could feel my emotions acutely if he chose, and asked neutrally, “Do we need to talk about it more tonight? Your conversation with Ambrosius, that is.” I was pleased to see that Lancelot actually considered that before shaking his head, though the motion was sharp, angry. I ignored that fact and went on as I had planned (hoped) to do: “Good. Because I want you to fuck me.” 

Lance laughed shortly, a harsh, unpleasant sound. “As frankly  _ furious  _ as I am, that’s probably not a good idea.” 

“Why not? Because you’ll be rough? You know I like that. I’m asking right now because I want that - and because it will be good stress relief for both of us, I think.”

Lance  _ wanted  _ it; I could feel it. He had wanted me earlier, and the fact that I was offering myself to him now just made him want it more. But he also felt as if he  _ shouldn’t  _ want it, and was fighting an internal battle over his desires. I waited patiently, not wanting to pressure him if he wasn’t comfortable with this tonight - but I  _ really  _ hoped  that he would decide the wanted it. Lance had dominated me that morning without his physicality, and though I knew we should still be careful of his injured leg, it had whetted my appetite for more. Besides, my lover was extremely attractive when he was glowering like this - and my momentary power earlier had, perhaps perversely, made me want this even more. Thanks to the emotional bond that we shared, I understood intimately why and how much Lancelot enjoyed it when I dominated him, the interplay of that with his own self-image as the King’s Champion and a king in his own right. The more time I spent as Queen’s Champion the more I developed a similar feeling in our relationship. It would never be exactly the same, but it was there. In short, I wanted Lancelot. Desperately. And especially with the dark energy rippling around him just now. 

Fortunately for me, my lover was done debating with his own reservations, and had come to the conclusion that there was nothing inherently wrong with going along with what I wanted tonight, because I  _ wanted it  _ \- we both did. “You’re sure about this?” he asked, double-checking, and my heart climbed a little into my throat, for he was making no attempt whatsoever to restrain the darkness in his eyes or expression. He was looming, tense with anger, and every bit the powerful, deadly warrior that everyone knew him to be. It made my blood quicken (and my cock twitch, if I was being perfectly honest) to have all that intensity focused on me, and know that I had nothing to fear from it. I responded to his question by grabbing the front of his doublet and kissing him desperately. Lancelot kissed me back briefly, then pulled back to tug at the buckle of my belt.  

We set about undressing each other quickly and desperately, but once Lance had gotten my shirt off he batted my hands away from the laces on his breeches and backed me up against the wall, his grip on my hips just the right side of too tight. I pushed back a bit to test his resolve, and was pleased when he gave me a little shove in response, my back pressing hard into the stone. Lancelot would not be able to lift me up and carry me to bed tonight - well, he probably  _ could,  _ but it would be a bad idea - but that was alright with me since there were plenty of other ways that this could be thoroughly enjoyable for both of us. Apparently, Lancelot had some ideas about that. 

Strong, sword-calloused hands pressed down on my shoulders. I resisted for a moment, and felt a wash of pleasure when his response was to tangle the fingers of one hand in my hair and tug down sharply at the same moment as he pushed again on my shoulder. I sank to my knees without complaint, arousal washing through my body and pooling in my lower gut. Lancelot held me still with the hand in my hair, twisting just a little so I could feel the pull and sting of it, and made me watch as he unlaced his breeches with his free hand. About halfway through, he paused for a moment and gave me an arch look born of his intimate awareness of the fact that I was practically squirming with anticipation. I responded the mental equivalent of a shrug and a half smile, unashamed and impatient. An angry and pushy Lancelot was one of my favorite things since I knew he would never hurt me in any way that I didn't want. He could tell how much I wanted this right now, so he stopped stalling. 

I enjoyed pleasuring my lover this way - on my knees, my mouth on his cock. I particularly enjoyed it on the rare occasions, like now, when he fisted his hands in my hair and gave into the instinct to angle my head just so, to thrust his hips forward, and generally to take exactly what he wanted in spite of the fact that it was somewhat uncomfortable for me. I didn’t mind, for this was what I had wanted tonight, and I did my best to get him off in spite of my lack of control over the situation. He didn’t let me though, physically forcing my head back when he was close to coming, and saying, “Oh no, I’m not done with you yet. Get up.” 

I struggled back to my feet, and Lancelot kept a hand on my arm to help me keep my balance. It was a thoughtful gesture, but, in keeping with the mood of the moment, his grip was firm, bordering on painful. I hoped distantly that it would leave a bruise come morning; I liked the idea of having Lancelot’s handprint emblazoned on my skin. I took a shaky breath and wondered what was next.

*  *  *  *

I wanted very badly to hoist Gareth up, dump him on the bed, and pin him down while having my way with him. Realistically, I couldn’t do any of that - not unless I wanted to find a way to explain to Gaius how I had ripped the stitches in my leg, and I most certainly did  _ not  _ want to have to do that. So for the time being, while I considered my other options, I settled for pulling roughly at the laces of his breeches. I snapped one of the leather thongs without actually meaning to, but the ensuing spike of arousal I felt from Gareth encouraged me to do the same to the other lace intentionally. It made Gareth practically weak-kneed, and I found that I was rather enjoying that, was enjoying having someone appreciate and be impressed by my strength. That brought my mind back to Ambrosius’ words, and with an annoyed growl I shoved Gareth roughly up against the wall once again. 

He eagerly helped me strip his remaining clothes off of him, then helped me out of mine as well. When we both stood naked I paused a moment to take stock, chest heaving with gasping breaths - arousal and simmering anger a potent combination. “Go get the oil out of the nightstand,” I told Gareth in my most commanding tone. I hadn’t really meant for it to come out quite so harshly, but his pupils blew wide with desire, so I couldn’t really call it a mistake. 

It was adorable how eagerly Gareth did as he was bid, almost tripping over his own feet in his eagerness. Within a few heartbeats he was back in front of me, offering me the jar with a flustered, flushed look. I took it with one hand, and with the other spun him around and pressed him against the wall - face-first this time. His hands came up to take his weight and he squirmed a little, uncomfortable but aroused by the vulnerable, exposed position. I couldn’t pin him to the bed and fuck him, but I thought my leg would probably hold up to pinning him against the  _ wall  _ and fucking him. I sincerely hoped so, because the thought alone was enough to have us both groaning with want. 

I hit a minor logistical roadblock for a moment when I realized I couldn’t hold the oil, prepare him, and keep him pinned all at once. But that was easily solved by grabbing the back of Gareth’s neck and more or less dragging him to a spot beside the nearest nightstand. I set the oil on it, open, and twisted one of Gareth’s wrists into the small of his back so I could hold him firmly with just one hand, then dipped two fingers of my free hand into the slick liquid. 

Gareth moaned aloud when I pressed first one and then both fingers inside of him, canting his hips back as much as he was able given how I had him pinned. He  _ loved  _ this, enough to make me smirk a bit; he couldn't see it but he could feel it, and responded by throwing a heated look over his shoulder at me. In retaliation, I pressed my fingers against the place inside of him that made his knees go weak and his mouth drop open helplessly. Then I did it again and actually had to catch him to keep him from falling when his knees really did give out. It settled something inside of me to feel his weight in my hands, trusting and  _ needing _ . Gareth still wanted me to be rough though, and I was still very much in the mood for it, so I pressed him up against the rough stone, one hand firm between his shoulder blades, and coated my cock with sweet-smelling oil. 

I probably had not prepared him quite enough for this, but rather than protest Gareth moaned “ _ yes _ ” and “ _ more _ ” and “ _ please _ ” until I wasn’t sure which words came from his mouth and which were emotions thrumming along our bond. I did as he wanted, pressing inside of him, gripping his hips too tight, and fucking him ruthlessly as his hands scrambled for purchase against the wall.  __

Gareth’s body was young and strong, and I watched the muscles in his back ripple and flex as he set his feet and pushed back, simultaneously matching my rhythm and asking for more. We were perfectly in sync, pleasure building and rising, breath coming hard and fast. My leg ached distantly, but I was far too wrapped up in our combined pleasure to mind. It was good, but not - quite - enough, the position and the angle less than ideal. I shifted, placing my hands beside his on the wall and leaning over his back more. He bowed his head, awash with both physical pleasure and emotional pleasure - revelling in the manhandling I had been subjecting him to, and in the not-so-subtle reminder that I was still powerful and deadly. It was oddly soothing to know that he still viewed me that way. More, it was a balm on my soul to realize (not for the first time) just how much he  _ liked  _ that power and deadliness and  _ darkness  _ that was in me, though it sent most people (including no few of the Knights) shrinking away when they were confronted with it. And here was Gareth, seeking it out and trusting me not to hurt him with it. Trusting me only to hurt him as much as he wanted me to. 

Along our bond, I got a flash of the moment earlier when I had seized his arm, and his half-idle wish that he hoped it would leave a visible bruise. I groaned, cock twitching, impossibly close to my release, and on an impulse set my teeth against the place that Gareth’s neck met his shoulder and bit down - not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to hurt and to  _ mark.  _ It tipped him over the edge, and I followed at practically the same moment, curling closer over his back. 

Gareth leaned heavily against the wall, narrowly preventing us both from tumbling unceremoniously to the floor. Through a haze of contentment, I couldn’t help but think just how terribly attractive it was that Gareth was capable of that, taking a significant part of our combined weights against his hands, muscles in his arms and back bunching and rippling, even as he rode out the same wave of pleasure that I did. I let my head fall against his shoulder for a moment before gathering myself enough for us to disentangle ourselves and stumbled to the bed. 

We lay there for some time, Gareth half on top of me, both of us sweaty, breathing hard, and bearing the evidence of our recent activities. It was one of those things which should have been unpleasant and unattractive, but somehow with Gareth it wasn’t either of those things. After a while, however, we both began to grow uncomfortably cold. Grumbling slightly, I sat up and stretched. My leg twinged, but I didn’t think I had done any actual damage. Gareth, meanwhile, rolled onto his side and curled up somewhat, silently telling me that there was no way he was getting up. Smiling and shaking my head fondly, I went and fetched a cloth so we could both clean up, and a spare blanket to sleep under. 

Fitting myself around the curve of Gareth’s back, Ambrosius and our troubles were the last thing on my mind, the anger long since burned out in the heat of pleasure. I had to give Gareth credit, his idea had been a good one; for the time being, at least, I was relaxed and content. 

*  *  *  *

“Well, has anyone had a stroke of inspiration in the way of getting someone close to Ambrosius?” Arthur asked as we took our seats around the Round Table. It was the same group that had gathered the day before, reconvening as we had decided to at that earlier meeting. He went on, “Because I can’t stall Caradoc’s messenger much longer. Knowing that it is likely Ambrosius’ men conducting the raids, I am loathe to send the Army. It would risk open armed conflict between my cousin and I, likely on his terms since he seems to have quite an elaborate plan. On the other hand, I must do  _ something _ .” I could hear the King’s frustration, and it was mirrored in the expressions and body language of everyone else around the table. Lancelot seemed especially tense, in spite of our lovemaking the night before. 

“I think we could send some trustworthy men who could be made to understand that it is a delicate situation,” suggested Cei. He and the King exchanged a look, and Arthur nodded slowly. 

The whole standing Army was exceptionally loyal to the King, and the Cavalry was even more so. Arthur expected unquestioning obedience in battle for it was often required for his strategies to work. But there was a a company of men trained to be especially trustworthy, and to be equally unquestioning (and, moreover,  _ discrete _ ) in all situations. One corps of this company guarded the castle, another travelled with the King, Queen, and Heir if they went beyond the castle grounds - be it a day’s ride, or a long journey- and a third served as a sort of reserve for the other two. On a daily basis, this corps helped train recruits, patrolled the area around Camelot, and occasionally did favors for the King, Cei, or even Lance. And I knew of a handful of situations where this third corps had been used to carry out particularly delicate missions. 

Arrangements were made to send some of these men to Caradoc’s border, with specific instructions to investigate the situation, and keep armed engagement to a minimum. They would not require an explanation of  _ why,  _ and could probably be trusted not to speculate aloud, except in private. With that sorted, conversation turned back to the main problem of the previous day: how to get a spy close enough to Ambrosius to ascertain the details of his plan. Arthur wanted to avoid all out civil war at (nearly) any cost - as did the rest of us. 

“Perhaps we ought to try to turn someone who is already close to him…” mused Gawain, though even he didn’t look convinced. 

It had been made clear through our various attempts to extract information from his men that Ambrosius was keeping his cards exceptionally close to his chest. We all knew we were going to have to try to get someone close to him, we just didn’t know how to go about doing it. Silence descended for long moments as we each turned the problem over in our minds. 

“Pity that there isn’t someone in whom he’s shown an interest…” mused Guinevere, eyes narrowing in thought, “This would be much easier if we weren’t starting from scratch.”

A strange emotion rippled along my bond with Lancelot as his head came up suddenly. “Lance, do you have an idea?” I asked urgently; I could tell that he did.

But Lancelot shook his head. “No...I don’t think so…” 

Arthur’s eyebrows drew together the way they did when he was thinking. “You had a conversation with Ambrosius last night, didn’t you?” 

Lancelot closed his eyes and sighed, resigned. “Yes,” he admitted, “He...expressed his opinion that I’m getting rather too old to be King’s Champion, and he seems to think that Gareth is angling to take my place sooner rather than later.”

I made a disgusted noise, while a number of our company laughed aloud at that. For those who knew us, it really was rather amusing. But Guinevere was still eyeing Lancelot closely; she had known him long enough that she didn’t need a bond with him to tell as I could that there was more. “What  _ else  _ did he say?”

Lancelot sighed again and replied with the air of someone signing their own execution order, “He said that that he wants me to come work for him instead.”

I stared at Lancelot blankly for a moment, as did everyone else. I was...rather offended, actually, though I had no particular reason to be. Perhaps I was just offended on Lancelot’s behalf that Ambrosius would think him so willing to leave his King and best friend. In fact, for a brief moment, the King looked similarly annoyed, but then he gathered himself. “Do you think he was serious, or was he trying to manipulate you?”

Lancelot considered. “It’s hard to say. He seemed serious, but with Ambrosius…” Lance shrugged, “He may have been manipulating me, or he may actually have a blind spot when it comes to this. Either way, I shot down the idea. Firmly. So I don’t think we can really take advantage of the opening.”

“Sure we can,” said Guinevere, “Give it a few days, then approach him and ask if the offer still stands. Let him think you’re reconsidering.”

“Days? Do we want to take that much time?” Lance asked, though I could tell his real complaint was getting dragged into the middle of this.

Arthur was nodding. “Clearly my cousin is playing a long game. Well, so can we. Besides, it will be over a week before we hear anything at all from the men sent to Cardoc - probably closer to two. If there’s some chance that my cousin would actually voluntarily include  _ you  _ in his inner circle then that’s a chance we have to pursue. It would be too valuable. Too perfect.”

Perfect for our strategy, maybe, but hellish for Lance. And for me. My lover and I were both thinking it. 

With that decision made, the meeting wrapped up fairly quickly and the group dispersed until, by unspoken agreement,  it was just Lancelot, Arthur, and I left in the room. My lover stood and began pacing, nervous energy lashing around him. Arthur and I both waited patiently for Lancelot to martial his thoughts into words. I stood and stretched subtly; the King actually went so far as to put his feet up on the table. It made me feel odd, such casualness in such an important place, but I pushed it aside. 

Finally, Lancelot rounded on Arthur and demanded, “And how exactly are we supposed to convince anyone that I would be willing to leave, hm? Ambrosius has obviously misinterpreted several things, and I know from Cei that some other members of the Court are making incorrect assumptions about my abilities and Gareth’s interest in taking my place. But for this to actually work - for me to  _ believably  _ appear to go over to Ambrosius’ side, it’s going to take a  _ hell  _ of a lot more than some misinterpretation. For fuck sake, I’ve fought for you for  _ decades _ , my loyalty to you is…” 

“Quite literally legendary?” the King offered calmly, “Yes, it is. And that would present a problem, but I’m sure we could overcome it if Ambrosius does seem genuinely interested in taking you with him. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“I rather think we should cross it  _ now _ ,” grouched Lancelot, “I mean, let’s think this through. Assume Ambrosius is serious, and in a few days I approach him and suggest that I might be willing. It’s a big step from that, to me gaining his trust. I mean...Are we seriously going to try to convince your cousin that I am suddenly disenchanted enough to betray you? What are you going to do, make up something to be mad at me about? Pretend that Gareth and I have had a falling out of some kind? Would that even  _ work _ ?”

Lancelot sounded disbelieving, but I knew that really he was trying to derail this plan before it could even fully be put into motion, because the idea of pretending to betray Arthur, even in the context of helping him, made Lancelot physically ill. I felt for him, but this was also bigger than what either he or I wanted. 

Arthur knew it and I knew it and thus we both said, “ _ Yes _ ” rather emphatically at the same moment. It would have been funny, in a less serious situation. 

Lance turned to me. “Seriously, Gareth, how would we even do that? What are you going to do? Pretend to hate me?”

Swallowing my own reservations (and vague nausea), I set my face in a blank mask, braced myself, and replied harshly, “No,  _ you’re  _ going to pretend to hate  _ me  _ because you’re a bitter old man who cannot bear to admit that he has lost a step, and too arrogant to believe that the man you trained can now do your job better than you. Because I’m younger and more talented and better looking, and you are willing to risk the King’s life to assuage your pride.” 

Lancelot stared at me for a second, stunned, then sat down abruptly in the nearest chair. Along our bond, I could feel Lance’s shock, followed by a flash of pain, and then understanding as it registered that they had just been words, and I loved him as much as ever. 

On the other side of the table, the King raised one eyebrow and muttered, “Bloody hell. And here I was worried that you wouldn’t be able to pull that off…”

I gave him an awkward, vaguely embarrassed half smile, and shrugged. Then I took the seat next to Lance and pressed my leg against his under the table, sending waves of love his way as additional reassurance after my little tirade. 

“It seems to me,” I said, returning to my usual calm, soft-spoken demeanor, “That what I just said pretty well sums up Ambrosius’ view of the situation, and some of the nastier rumors floating about. If Ambrosius seems serious about this, then all it should take to turn those whispers into a wildfire of gossip is a few very public disagreements between you and I, maybe backed up by the King telling us both off, but being more lenient with me. Ambrosius thinks Arthur is playing favorites already, maybe we can encourage that idea. And we all know how much courtiers love drama and gossip. If they find it entertaining, they’re unlikely to examine too closely the likelihood that is is  _ real _ . People,” I finished, reiterating a topic which Lancelot and I had discussed many times over the years, “Are  _ stupid _ .” 

Lancelot ran his hands over his face, looking (and feeling) exhausted, but he agreed. “It’s a good idea, if we can make it work. Doesn’t mean I have to like it one bit.”

Arthur rose and came around the table, resting one hand briefly on Lancelot’s shoulder as he said, “None of us are going to like it, but it’s better than civil war.”

Lancelot grumbled something about bars being so low you have to dig to get under them, then rose and made to follow Arthur to the door. The King gestured for him to stop, and glanced at me while addressing Lance, “Best let Gareth come with me again. Feed Ambrosius’ suspicious before you go speak to him again. And besides, your leg  _ is  _ still healing.”

I could feel Lancelot’s profound unhappiness like a weight in my own chest, but he merely nodded, ever the good soldier so long as it was Arthur giving the orders. I felt vaguely ill myself, disliking this plan nearly as much as Lancelot did. But if we could head off an all out war with Ambrosius, particularly an all out war during the harvest season, then it would be worth it. Probably. 

With a heavy heart, I followed the King, walking in Lancelot’s usual place by his left shoulder. Before we reached the the end of the passageway and stepped back into the more public parts of the castle, I squared my shoulders and stood a little straighter. I could never be as intimidating as Lancelot, but I could at least endeavor to take up a bit more space and look a bit more like a soldier. If I simultaneously reached out along my bond to Lance and took comfort in the warmth of his presence there, well, no one but him needed to know. 

*  * *  *

I waited a few minutes, gathering my thoughts, then followed Arthur and Gareth. I intended to spend my day with Guinevere again, since at least she made for good and often stimulating company. But first, I detoured through the Great Hall, where Arthur was briefly holding audiences for nobility before lunch. Given my dark mood, it was easy enough to skulk in the shadows, glowering up at the scene on the dais. It would surely get back to both Ambrosius and the Court gossips, and they would infer as they pleased. However, beneath the mask of dissatisfaction I wore, I was privately smiling a bit at the sight of Gareth standing firmly at Arthur’s shoulder. He looked good there, a natural fit in the role I had been training him for for a decade. It would be a lie to say that it didn’t make me feel a bit melancholy as well, this evidence that I was rapidly becoming unnecessary and redundant. But for Gareth’s sake I was immensely pleased. 

For long minutes, I simply enjoyed looking at them, as they were both beautiful. Multicolored light fell across the dais from the sun streaming in through the stained glass windows set high in the walls, and the red Dragon banner fluttered slightly behind them. They each looked exactly like what they were; Arthur was every inch the powerful monarch, and Gareth was every inch the Knight in his prime, right down the set of his feet and the hand resting easily on the sword at his up. With his armor on he was slightly more physically imposing, but really, all most people saw was the red cloak with the gold dragon glimmering on the shoulder and knew he was not someone to be messed with. Anyone who looked further would see the steely glint in his eyes and come to the same conclusion all over again. 

Abruptly, I felt terribly humbled to have them both in my life. And then, because I was quite sick of the constant emotional seesaw of the morning, I huffed aloud and took myself off to Guinevere’s solar to see if I couldn’t be of use again. If nothing else, I mused as I felt dozens of eyes watch me leave the Hall, it might get me away from all the bloody gossips for a while. 


	9. Friends and Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8: Friends and Lovers (and the distinctions between?)
> 
> The situation with Ambrosius becomes potentially even more serious; Cei learns not to ask questions he doesn't want to know the answers to; and Lancelot and Gareth discover an awkward bit of shared history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! I know there has been an unusually long gap in posting; real life has been Happening A Lot Lately. (Good things, just many things). Things should be settling down a bit now in my life, at least for a while, so hopefully I will be able to write more regularly. 
> 
> General note about this chapter: Toward the end of the chapter there is a brief discussion of a relationship with a big age gap (other than Lancelot/Gareth) that could probably be perceived as the younger person being taken advantage of. That's not how it happened, but if you're sensitive to that sort of thing, just consider this a gentle heads up.

Camelot was a beautiful, shining city which the King worked hard to make a paragon of all the good things he envisioned for his country. Like any human creation, however, it had its faults, and perhaps the greatest fault of the Court of Camelot was its love of and obsession with rumors. Particularly rumors that tore down previously beloved figures. 

I never understood why these people enjoyed toppling their heroes, pulling them off their pedestals and raking their names and reputations through the mud, but they did. The same people who would fawn over Tristan’s prowess in a tournament one week would gaily whisper horrid things about his love life the next. And the same courtiers and bards who extolled Lancelot’s virtue and loyalty would just readily (and far more gleefully) turn on him and convince half the country that he was sleeping with the Queen. 

Thus, it was not actually all that hard to convince the Court that Arthur was gradually but inexorably replacing Lancelot with me, and that, as a result Lancelot and I had had something of a falling out. Within two days of us setting our plan into motion with subtle changes in behavior, the whispers and sidelong glances had already begun. And from my new place by the King’s side, I watched this occur - and watched Ambrosius watching.  

We had chosen to include only a select few of the other Knights in the plan at this early stage, so while Gawain and Cei knew what was going on, the others were all left to assume the worst. It made for an entertaining and awkward series of conversations with the handful of people who knew that Lancelot and I were close. 

The Orkney twins confronted me about it almost immediately, but somewhat obliquely. “Was Lancelot injured worse than he let on in the boar hunt?” I merely shook my head. They shared a narrow-eyed glance, and I kept my face carefully blank. They were smart enough to tell that there was something more going on, but they didn’t pester me further, presumably preferring to figure it out for themselves. Those two always did enjoy a challenge, and the world presented few enough true challenges for people as intelligent as them.

Lynette confronted me next, pulling me aside after supper the second night and observing very astutely, “Something is going on. You and Lancelot and the King are all acting  _ odd  _ around each other, and Gawain claims he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, which means he must be in on it. So?” 

I considered briefly, but since Lynette already knew that Lance and I were together, I decided to trust her with this too - or at least, with part of it. “We’re...laying a trap for someone, to see if he’ll bite. You don’t need to worry; we’re all fine. Just...playing politics.” She didn’t look entirely satisfied by that, so I added, “When it’s over - whether that’s soon or not - I promist to tell you the whole story, alright? In the meantime, could you do me a favor and  _ not  _ argue with anyone who is trying to suggest that Lance and I are at odds.”

“Don’t you think that would be rather out of character for me?” Lynette enquired sweetly. Clearly she was well aware of her growing reputation at Court, a fact which I filed away for future reference. 

I thought about that, then agreed with her. She was known for being argumentative, fiercely loyal, and ignoring precedent and expectation whenever possible. (It had, as Tristan had pointed out earlier, earned her a disparaging moniker among the worst of the gossips: the Loathly Lady.) No point in raising eyebrows by having her change now. 

Tristan confronted me next, cornering me early the following morning on my way down to the salle to train. He merely demanded, “What’s going on?” 

I raised one eyebrow and cocked my head slightly, silently enquiring, “What do you mean?”

He rolled his eyes. “Look, Lance is one of my best friends - sometimes maybe my only friend. I swear -” 

I cut him off just to spare us both the discomfort of whatever threat he was about to make. “There’s nothing wrong between Lance and I. And there’s nothing wrong between Lance and the King, either.”

Tristan took half a step back, crossed his arms, and looked at me closely, then demanded, “Tell me what’s going on. I want to help.”

Since Tristan was both quite trustworthy, and very in touch with Court gossip (and thus potentially very helpful), I said, “I’ll fill you in if you come spar with me.” And that was what we did. 

Seeing me training with Tristan rather than Lancelot only fanned the flames of rumor, and so it was that after three days Lancelot decided that it was safe to approach Ambrosius and see if the offer of employment still stood. 

*  * *  *

It was strange not to interact with Arthur and Gareth much throughout the day, to in fact go out of my way to avoid being too near them. And when we were in close proximity we were all careful not to chat too much, or even to  _ look  _ at each other too often, since in normal circumstances we exchanged frequent glances, the sort of nonverbal communication possible with people whom you had spent so much time with that you knew how they  _ thought _ . 

I would not have known what to do with myself, except for two things: Guinevere took me under her wing during the day, and all four of us spent even more time together than usual in the evenings. During the day, I accompanied Guinevere about her many varied duties, or trained alone in the salle during the times when it was not conducive to Guin’s work to have an intimidating man hovering about. And once public duties were concluded for the day, Guinevere, Arthur, Gareth and I would gather in the study to drink and talk. One evening Arthur, Gareth and I even fell into a dice game, ignoring Guinevere’s comically disapproving look. 

I felt, if possible, even more tuned in than usual to both Gareth and Arthur, and so it was impossible for me to be unaware of the fact Gareth was still uncomfortable around Arthur and Guinevere. To me it was odd, since we did all spent a lot of time together, and they treated him as a friend - not with quite the level of familiarity that they treated me, but I had been known to fall asleep in their bed on occasion so a little  _ less  _ familiarity probably wasn’t a bad thing. I tried to ask Gareth about it once or twice, but he merely shrugged and said it was still an adjustment for someone of his background to be expected to call the High Queen and High King by their given names. Which made sense, so I let it go. I certainly wasn’t going to bicker with him in the small amount of private time we had together. 

With Camelot’s rumor mill turning away at its usual pace (and some help from Tristan) it was only a few days before we decided that I could approach Ambrosius. I was dreading it, torn between the understanding that we  _ needed  _ this to work, and the fear that if it worked it would mean I would have to leave Camelot with the bastard.  

I chose to seek out Arthur’s cousin after a Court dinner one evening. They were not daily occurrences, of course, but when they did occur the time before and after the feast itself tended to see courtiers mill about the gardens or the hall. I tracked Ambrosius down in a private corner of one of the gardens. He did not seem at all surprised to see me, which boded well for our plan even if it made me feel a bit sick to my stomach. 

Ambrosius smiled at me, one of his oily, smug smiles that made me want to punch him. Instead I breathed out through my nose and glanced down at the ground, visibly uncomfortable but hopefully also deferential. “So,” said Ambrosius, just barely holding back a sneer, “You’ve reconsidered my offer.” 

I nodded slowly, fishing for something to say, and eventually came up with, “It seems I am not as… _ appreciated _ here as I thought I was. That makes your offer look considerably more attractive.”

“I’m sure it does.” Ambrosius looked away for a moment, back toward the doors to the main hall, then said dismissively, “But I’m not convinced that you are actually prepared to  _ leave _ this place.” I couldn’t argue with that, and luckily I didn’t need to. “I’ll consider it, and I suggest you do the same. Come talk to me again in a week.” His tone made it clear that I was expected to leave, so I did, sketching just the faintest bow in his direction before turning and making my way into the Hall.

The whole encounter left me feeling dirty and tainted, and the sensation did not dissipate through the course of dinner. Resultantly, I was thoroughly grumpy by the time the feast concluded and I reported to Arthur the outcome of my conversation with his cousin. The King nodded somberly and said, “We’ll discuss it tomorrow. For now, get some sleep.” 

Gareth was waiting for me in our room, half undressed and washing his face. He looked up as I entered, and gave me a tempting smile. The necessity of acting distant from each other in public had, perhaps unsurprisingly, led to even more than our usual closeness in private. Our sex had taken on a somewhat desperate edge with the stress we were operating under and the knowledge that we might soon be separate. I certainly wasn’t complaining about that, but tonight I just went over and wrapped my arms around Gareth from behind,  resting my cheek atop his head and leaning some of my weight on him, enjoying that I could do that and trust him to hold me up. I felt utterly drained, and Gareth could suddenly tell that I felt that way, so he was utterly unsurprised when I mumbled into his hair, “Would it be alright if we just...cuddled tonight?” 

“Of course,” 

We changed into sleeping clothes and laid down in the center of the big bed, me on my back and Gareth on my chest. I drifted off to him talking soothingly about his day, and slept far more deeply and restfully than I had expected to. Unfortunately, we were pulled from our sleep rather unpleasantly very early the following morning. 

*  * *  *

Living in the Royal Suite had many advantages, not the least of which was the privacy. Lancelot especially enjoyed this, but the longer I spent in the public eye the more I enjoyed it as well. Very few people even had access to the suite, and they all knew about Lance and I. (I had to assume that the  _ very  _ small number of  _ extremely _ trustworthy guards and servants had guessed, since Lancelot and I quite clearly shared a room.) More importantly, no one with access to the suite would think to intrude into any of the bedrooms. There was one exception to those two certainties: Cei. It was probably only a matter of time before he barged in, and yet I somehow contrived to be surprised regardless. 

I started awake at the sound of the door slamming open, and beneath me Lancelot did the same, one arm tightening around my waist as my hand reached for one of the daggers we kept beneath the pillows. The blankets were pulled up around my ears, so it was Cei’s voice that alerted me to who the unexpected intruder was. He must have been speaking as he opened the door, because he got as far as, “Arthur’s called an emergency meeti-” And then he registered the Lancelot was not alone. I could picture the smirk on his face. 

“You were saying, Cei?” prompted Lancelot dryly. 

“Emergency meeting. Round Table chamber. News about Ambrosius.” 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” muttered Lancelot, then a pause then, with exaggerated patience, “You can leave now, Cei.” A moment later the door closed quietly and I sat up, throwing back the blankets. 

There had been real urgency in Cei’s voice, so Lancelot and I dressed rapidly, grabbed our weapons, and more or less ran all the way to the chamber. This wasn’t the time to have a crisis about someone else finding out about us. Cei was trustworthy, but often abrasive, and I had no real sense of whether he would accept us as lovers or be made deeply uncomfortable by it. He never openly commented on Tristan’s love life, but he had also had to spend a lot of time, energy, and political capital mitigating the worst of the fallout from some of those relationships; it was Cei’s job to protect the King politically, as Lancelot protected him physically. It would not surprise me if Cei saw only the risks of this and took it badly. Oddly, though though I sensed from Lancelot a certain level of mild amusement, which confused me until we sat down at the table and I realized that Cei was entirely unaware that it had been  _ me  _ in Lancelot’s bed.

While we waited for one or two stragglers (and breakfast) to arrive, Cei leaned back in his chair with a little smirk and said to Tristan, who was sitting beside him, “You’ll never believe what I saw this morning. Lancelot actually had someone in his bed!” 

Tristan blatantly pretended surprise, putting a hand to his breast and gasping “No!” quite comically. A few of the others chuckled, partly at Tristan’s pointedly terrible acting and partly because Lance was  _ famous  _ for his lack of lovers. 

Lancelot, meanwhile, fixed Cei with a deeply unamused look and said, “Surely you have more pressing concerns right now than my love life.” 

“Oh come on, Lance, you can’t blame me for being curious! I can’t even recall the last time you took a lover.” 

“Probably because I don’t make habit of sharing such things with you, Cei. Believe it or not there  _ are  _ things that happen in this castle that you are - thankfully - entirely unaware of.” 

“What is Cei unaware of?” enquired Arthur, appearing to take his seat. He looked tired in a way that suggested less a lack of sleep and more that the cloak and crown he wore weighed an immeasurable amount. 

Before anyone could answer, Cei demanded of his foster brother, “Did you know that Lance was sleeping with someone last night?”

Arthur gave his brother a blank, deeply unamused look and replied, “Specifically, no but let’s just say that I’m far from surprised.” 

“Oh so it wasn’t a one-time affair then,” smirked Cei, turning his attention back to Lancelot. 

This time my lover merely told him to fuck off. And then breakfast arrived and the King turned the conversation to the reason for this early morning meeting, and for the next hour or so everything else was forgotten. 

News had arrived from some of Lancelot’s and Cei’s sources that an envoy from Aesc, one of the Saxon Kings, had been seen at Ambrosius’ villa. This was chilling. Bad enough that a handful of British lords appeared to be siding with Arthur’s cousin; if the Saxons also got involved then this changed from a possible civil war to a fight for our very survival. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” cautioned the King when Cei pointed this out in his usual blunt way, “Aesc is politically astute, and has always kept to his treaty with us. He may simply have been feeling out Ambrosius, or they could be meeting about something else entirely, like trade.”

Cei and a few of the others openly scoffed, and I could see by the tightness around Arthur’s eyes that also feared the worst in spite of his words. He and Lancelot shared a look, and I knew that they had just silently decided that Lancelot  _ must  _ convince Ambrosius to let him into the inner circle. We  _ had  _ to know the reality of what was going on, and what we were (or were not) facing. It was a good idea, even if it did make my insides go cold. 

Then I had a thought. I turned it over in my head for a moment to decide if it was utterly stupid, and, upon coming to the conclusion that it at least warranted airing, said quietly into the growing hubbub of voices, “Is there a way to start quietly raising the Army in case we need it?”

I expected to have to repeat myself at least three times to get everyone’s attention, but to my surprise everyone fell quiet before the sentence was entirely out of my mouth. It was...disconcerting. 

_ Welcome to being King’s Champion,  _ Lancelot thought at me, and it took a great deal of self control not to start at just how  _ clearly  _ I could ‘hear’ his words in my head. That was new. Oh it had been developing for a few weeks now, but the ease and precision of this was new. It made me wonder, briefly, just how deep and strong this bond would eventually get. Then I set all that aside and elaborated for the benefit of those now staring at me, “It seems that the odds are increasing that we will need to raise the Army. Whether or not there is a war, if we come close to a war we are going to want more than just the standing cavalry and Camelot’s division of soldiers at our backs. So, is there some way we could begin gathering a larger force without raising undue suspicions? Ambrosius has been having  _ training exercises  _ with forces from neighboring kingdoms, surely we could bring some of the outlying units in with a similar excuse?” 

The King smiled slowly, giving me a warm, pleased look. Was he actually  _ proud  _ of me for thinking of that? (Lancelot certainly was, but I was a bit taken aback at the thought that perhaps the King too felt he had something invested in my growth as a Knight). “I think if we are careful that is entirely plausible. We do have drills in the summer months, but we don’t bring in all the units every year, of course…” Arthur was thinking out loud, and we all listened with rapt attention. His strategizing usually happened in silence, or too quickly for the rest of us to follow. “I would want to bring in experienced men, but yes I think we could get at least a couple of units here or...better yet somewhere that is near to here, between here and Ambrosius’ lands, with the excuse that they did not drill with other units this summer.” He looked to Cei, “You and I will sit down with the Lord Marshall and decide which units would best; I’m thinking at least one from the North, and one from one of the more active Saxon borders, if we can spare them. We’ll tell their officers that discretion is important, and we won’t tell anyone else in Camelot what we are doing. That should minimize the spread of gossip.”

“Ambrosius could still find out,” pointed out Gawain, though we were all thinking it.

“Well then that will be a demonstration of his reach,” was all the King said in reply. 

The meeting broke up shortly after that, and my hope that Cei would have forgotten about this morning was short-lived.

*  * *  *

“Come on, Lance,” wheedled Cei as the other filed out, “You can’t blame me for being curious. I can’t even recall the last time you took a lover!”

“Probably because I don’t make a habit of sharing such things with you, Cei,” I replied flatly. Contrary to popular belief, Cei and I actually did get on quite well. However our relationship was such that we were both brutally honest with each other, and often not terribly  _ nice  _ on the surface of things. And Cei’s nosiness did sometimes genuinely irk me, even though he had his reasons - namely that it was his job to head off political headaches and scandals before they could reach problematic proportions. 

“What are we talking about?” asked Bedwyr, sidling up as well. It was the five us in the room now - Cei, Bedwyr, Gareth and I, with Arthur hovering the table, looking over papers. 

“ _ Nothing _ ,” I snapped.

“My, my, aren’t you defensive,” chuckled Cei, then to Bedwyr, “I went to get Lance for this meeting and there was someone in bed with him.”

“Well that  _ is  _ unusual,” drawled Bedwyr, but suddenly got a lot less interested when he saw the murderous look on my face. “Anyway, I have a bunch of energetic squires to go knock some sense into.” Bedwyr, for all that he was big and gruff, was no idiot. He was also an exceptional weaponsmaster. 

Cei, however, was not so easily put off, and he cornered me again near the door as I was trying to leave. “Come on, Lance, just tell me who it was. Cute little blond thing…”

“Cei, I swear to-!” I started to shout, but Gareth interrupted appearing at my elbow.

“It was me, Cei. It wasn’t a woman in his bed; it was me.”

The poleaxed expression on Cei’s face nearly made me laugh aloud. It was rare indeed to catch Cei completely off guard with information, and he had clearly not expected that at  _ all _ . 

Arthur walked by and clapped Cei on the shoulder, saying as he did, “You wanted to know, Cei. You wanted to know.” Cei’s expression suggested that he was  regretting that fact, and he quickly followed Arthur out of the room. Gareth had to go with them, pausing just long enough to murmur a hasty apology for telling Cei without asking me first. I waved away his concern. Cei should have been told a long time ago, and at least this way the telling had been amusing for me. 

The rest of the day, however, passed in a blur of stress, and a growing weight in the pit of my stomach. I knew I had to convince Ambrosius to trust me, and my week we was almost up. Gareth and I were doing a good job being unfriendly to each other in public, but I had realized that that was not going to be sufficient. So, when Arthur suggested that a few of us meet in his study for drinks after supper, I was more than happy for the promised distraction. 

This was a tradition that dated back to a time before Arthur was King, and, in some ways, essentially where the concept of the Round Table had originated. Back when Arthur was a war leader and a rebel, living in a military camp rather than a king living in a castle, he would gather his friends and advisors around his campfire in the evenings. Sometimes we would talk strategy - Arthur was still  _  so  _ young, and at that time most of those closest to him were significantly older and more experienced - but sometimes we would just drink and tell stories and blow of steam. Whether we were planning or joking, when we gathered around that fire we were all equals; and when Arthur became King he had wanted to preserve the honest and equality of those conversations. He recognized the value of advisors who could speak freely. Thus, the Round Table was born. How the Table itself and Knights were usually used only for the serious business. When Arthur wanted the comradeship of those nights, he would invite some of us up to his study for drinks. 

On this night, it was just the innermost circle who gathered plus Tristan, and Guinevere declined to join us, saying that we needed some time without her. She was well aware that, regardless of the fact that she could be just as crude as the rest of us, we wouldn’t fully relax with her in our presence, and we really needed an evening to drop our guard and just  _ be  _ for a while. 

Arthur took his prefered seat by the fire, throwing one leg over the arm of the comfortable old chair. Gawain and Cei claimed the couch, Gawain curled in one corner and Cei sprawled across the rest. Tristan and I both flopped down on the floor, me with my back to Arthur’s chair, shoulder pressed against his knee, and Tristan just flat on his back on the rug. Gareth somewhat awkwardly took the other armchair, opposite Arthur’s. He was still getting used to being included in these private moments, when we stopped being kings, princes, seneschals and knights, and instead became simple soldiers once again. Granted, the quality of the drinks was better, and the surroundings more comfortable, but in all the ways that really mattered this was no different than it had been all those years under the stars - friends trying to escape the weight of the world for a time. 

In pursuit of that, we were drinking good wine and strong mead, depending upon personal preference. There was nothing planned for the morning, so barring a true emergency we could all afford to be a little drunk tonight. It was a rare luxury, and not one I usually indulged in. I didn’t like my mind clouded, but as the conversation and inevitable teasing flowed easily, I allowed myself to have enough that I felt warm and content and more relaxed than I had been since Ambrosius arrived. If I was any judge, the others were all in a similar state, Cei and Tristan perhaps slightly closer to actually being drunk. 

*  * *  *

This was... _ nice _ . Still profoundly weird if I thought about it too much, but nice. And it was good to see everyone relaxed for the first time in weeks. The conversation was light, the lot of us laughing about stories that Gawain was telling about humorous political incidents in the Orkney’s; and then Tristan had to open his mouth. He stretched languidly, tipped his head to look up at Cei, and asked, “So have you stopped being a dick?”

Cei was already drunk enough not to take outright offense, but rather to respond haughtily, “Why Tristan, you really have been gone too long if you've forgotten my endless capacity for being a dick.”

We all laughed good naturedly, then Gawain asked, “Is this in reference to Gareth and Lance sleeping together? I noticed you looking at them strangely earlier, Cei, and ignoring Gareth during that meeting, which was utterly uncalled for by the way.”  

Cei grimaced at Gawain’s words. “It’s….true then? Really? You’re not all playing some elaborate joke on me?”

“No, Cei,” I said, and it came out rather more harshly than I meant for it to. I really was profoundly unamused by that suggestion. Lance and I were both risking our reputations and more to be together; it was no laughing matter. 

Cei held up his hands in mock surrender without putting down his goblet. “Oiy. You’re the one who sprang it on me!” 

“You were the one pestering Lance about his love life!”  I retorted, the irritation beginning to drain out of me. Tonight was a good night and Cei, for all his abrasiveness, was a friend. He hadn’t really meant anything by it, irritating as it was. 

“You didn’t have to spring it on my like that!” protested Cei, laughing in his voice. 

The rest of us laughed outright and I replied, “Oh, I really did - you should have seen the look on your face!”

“Yes, yes, very amusing I’m sure. And  _ you _ ,” Cei turned a vaguely accusing look on Lance, Anything else I should know? I’d rather not be caught off guard like that again.” 

“I mean...what exactly do you want to know?” Lance asked, though I sensed that he had little intention to reward Cei’s nosiness with more information. Besides, it seemed to me that Cei had known Lance for so long that surely Cei already knew most significant things about my lover. 

Cei replied quite seriously, “I want to know who else you’ve slept with. I don’t need to know everything - God forbid - just...significant romantic encounters. I don’t want any more surprises on that front, thank you very much.” He added the last lightly, but I knew Cei well enough to know that he was actually asking. I was sure it was the alcohol making him him bold enough to address the issue, but Cei genuinely did feel that he needed to know. 

Cei was an exceptional Senechal in part because of his extensive knowledge of nearly everyone at Court. He was rarely caught off guard by a scandal, and could usually head off the most politically charged ones before they developed into full-blown Incidents. Lancelot and I both knew this, but Cei’s associated nosey-ness irritated my lover nonetheless. On this evening, Lance apparently decided it would be funny to see Cei’s reaction to a completely honest answer to the question of Lance’s love life. 

“Well, let’s see…” began Lancelot in a mock thoughtful tone, “There haven’t been may. There was the stable boy back in Gaul, the reason my father sent me away. While I was travelling I met a mercenary and we kept each other company for a few years. That was instructive.” He said this last with a studied blandness, and we both enjoyed the way Cei blanched and the others cackled in mirth. Lancelot and the King shared the briefest of glances before my lover went on, “After that would have been...Arthur. And I-” he was interrupted by Cei’s goblet tumbling to the ground as he literally dropped it in shock. 

The King gave his foster-brother an arch look. “You’re very fortunate that was empty.” Cei was too busy looking flabbergasted to respond. 

Suppressing a smirk, Lancelot continued, “And after that just Gareth I think.” 

Tristan clapped a hand to his chest and gasped with mock offense, “What! Was I really so forgettable?” 

“Well he did specify  _ romantic  _ encounters,” Lance retorted, eyes dancing with amusement. 

“True,” agreed Tristan placidly, “There definitely wasn’t any romance for us. Just a convenient fuck. Repeatedly.” 

Cei buried his head in his hands while Tristan and Lancelot laughed. It was funny, I supposed, but in that moment I sympathized more with Cei than with the others, who were all thoroughly enjoying Cei’s shock that Lance, famous for his  _ lack  _ of a lovelife, had slept with nearly everyone in the room.  

Lancelot and I had never discussed our previous lovers in any detail, with the exception of that first night when he had told me about Arthur. I didn’t care about his past, and he was possessive and protective enough that we had mutually agreed that it was probably best if he didn’t know about my past bedmates. Up to this point, it had been no issue, but I would never have thought that Lancelot and I would have any  _ shared  _ past lovers. And to make it worse, there seemed to be a fair chance that Tristan had been fucking both of us  _ at the same time. _ That thought made me want to curl up into a ball and hide, though I wasn’t quite sure why. I just hoped that Lance was too distracted to notice my emotions along our bond. I didn’t want to spoil his unusually relaxed mood with my sudden and absurd insecurities. 

I was pulled from my thoughts by Cei blustering, “Frankly, I’m less surprised than I probably should be that you slept with Tristan. But  _ Arthur? Really?  _ And  _ you _ -” he turned to his foster brother, “-What the actual fuck? How did I not know about this?” 

“It was before I was King,” said Arthur, explaining and placating simultaneously, “Before I even knew I was Uther’s son.”

“But Guinevere…”

“Is aware,” Arthur informed him cooly, “And I love her very much, and I can assure you that our sex life leaves nothing to be desired.”

Cei flushed deeply, obviously not wanting to hear about his brother’s sex life, and finally, rounded on Gawain, “Why don’t you look more surprised by this? Did you know? Why am I the last one to find out about all of this?”

Gawain shrugged. “I mean, I found out about Lance and Gareth on our mission to Lyonesse because Lynette noticed and said something. I know about Tristan and Lance because I walked in on them one time and that’s rather hard to forget.” Now it was Lancelot’s turn to look embarrassed, though Tristan merely smiled, shameless and amused. Gawain went on, “And as for Lance and  _ Arthur,  _ I didn’t  _ know  _ but I’m not even remotely surprised.” So saying, the Prince leaned and stretched out his legs comfortably, looking immensely pleased with himself. 

Cei looked around the little group of us, clearly flabbergasted, then threw his hands up and said, “Remind me never to ask about anyone’s love life ever again - I officially don't want to know!” 

*  * *  *

I could tell Gareth had something on his mind as we returned to our room shortly thereafter. However, when I asked if he was alright, his only response was to back me up against a wall and kiss me like his life depended upon it. I was perfectly happy to go along with that, though as we tumbled into bed a few minutes later I did manage to marshall my thoughts enough to say, “I’m sorry if talking about my past lovers made you uncomfortable. I didn’t even think about…”

“It’s fine,” he replied, though I wasn’t sure that he entirely meant it, “I just...was surprised about Tristan.”

_ Ahh _ so that was what was bothering him. “It’s like he said, Gareth - it was convenience and nothing more.”

“Oh I don’t doubt that,” my lover replied, then muttered, “Enough talking…”

I chuckled a little at that and we finished undressing each other, clumsy with desire. Once we were both naked, Gareth slid down my body and I moaned in anticipation of pleasure; he really was very  _ very  _ good at this. Gareth took me in his mouth, doing something with his tongue that almost made me come then and there. There was only one other person I’d ever known- that thought ground to a halt in my head. Fuck 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” I said aloud, in a tone that had Gareth sitting up and looking at me in concern as my desire flagged. 

“What’s wrong?”

I looked at him with what I’m sure was a comically shocked expression on my face, “You’ve also slept with Tristan!”

He stared at me and then flushed deeply. “I- well- I mean...yes…” he managed finally. With a heavy sigh Gareth flopped down next to me on the bed so we lay shoulder to shoulder, both looking up at the ceiling. “I realized that earlier when you were talking.”

“When?” I asked, “I mean, when did you…with him?”

“About...four years ago?” Gareth said slowly. “Right after I came back from...you know, the mission before I became a member of the Round Table. I was...he kept me from doing something stupid. I was pursuing the son of a noble. It would have ended badly, and Tristan...basically said that if I was interested in sleeping with a guy it needed to be someone trustworthy-”

“-and offered,” I finished. “Bastard.”

“It was a good thing, Lance,” Gareth told me gently, “It meant I wasn’t at risk of a relationship going badly and exposing me, which would have been disastrous. Tristan was trustworthy and...well...good experience.”

I snorted impolitely. Tristan was  _ experienced _ for sure. Then two thoughts struck me at the same time: Tristan was not much younger than me, and I had  _ also  _ been sleeping with Tristan five years ago. I addressed the first one first.

“Hold on, you were  _ nineteen _ .”

“I was  _ twenty _ ,” retorted Gareth, “And  _ very  _ much an adult. Especially after that mission.” He slid me a sideways look that dared me to pursue that too far. I wanted to. I wanted to say that it was  _ different _ and  _ worse _ than what we were doing. But I realized that would be a bad idea, so I said nothing. We’d have to talk about it later, but for now I let it go.

Gareth, however, could tell I had something else on my mind, and guessed what with unerring accuracy. “You were sleeping with him then too, weren’t you?”

I groaned and covered my face. “ _ Yes… _ ” 

Gareth huffed, just as profoundly uncomfortable with that realization as I was, but then he  _ laughed _ . It was weak and vaguely hysterical, but it was a genuine laugh. 

“What?” I asked, turning to look at him narrowly. 

My lover shrugged helplessly. “It’s a little bit funny. Bit like we were meant to be together, I suppose.”

I considered that for a long moment, melting a little at the happy, hopeful expression in Gareth’s big hazel eyes. I smiled a little, looking just as sappy I was sure. I still wasn’t exactly thrilled about the realization that Gareth and Tristan had been lovers, but I could accept it. And I felt a flush of warmth as it occurred to me that in spite of this unpleasant surprise, there was nothing at all wrong between Gareth and I, our relationship far too stable and strong to be rocked by something as relatively minor as this. I reached out and pulled Gareth close, wanting to feel him against me. Sex was off the table for the night at this point, but we drifted off in a comfortable tangle of limbs and contentment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say 'hi' on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gwyndulac) (I'm GwynDuLac there too)!


	10. Pasts and Futures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9: Pasts and Futures (and where do they meet?)
> 
> Lancelot and Gareth fully commit themselves to convincing Ambrosius that Lance is a defector. It is rough on both of them. Also, Tristan ruins a good moment because he doesn't know when to shut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry for taking so long to get this up, and thank you for your patience. This chapter really did not want to be written, but I'm finally pretty happy with it.
> 
> Also, I believe that with the addition of this chapter, Part IV is now officially longer than Part II, which was the last time this story involved Real Plot. I suspect it will take me at least 5 more chapters to wrap this up, probably more since there is a lot of plot left to cover. (I do have most of this story planned - the details and the writing process just catch me up sometimes).
> 
> Also, this isn't beta'd at all because my occasional beta reader is currently neck-deep in an academic paper - good excuse if you ask me ; )

We woke early the next morning, the realization of the night before still very much at the forefront of our thoughts. I sent for breakfast, and once it arrived we sat down to eat and talk. I was pleased, at least, that Gareth seemed willing to talk about it.

“Is it the age difference that’s bothering you, or something else?” he prompted as I bit into a warm scone.

“Partly that. Mostly that, I suppose. It’s just...Christ, Gareth, Tristan isn’t much younger than me, and you were barely twenty. And he convinced you that sleeping with him would be better than with the person you were interested in.”

“The person I was interested in was _you_ ,” he retorted immediately, “And the nobleman’s son I was pursuing was also several years older than me. No one took advantage of me, Lance.”

I wanted to believe that. I really, really did. I spoke aloud my next thought, trying to articulate the other thing that had me unsettled. “It’s also...I think I’m also bothered because...Tristan is my friend and don’t want to think of him taking advantage of anyone, or even putting himself in a position where that is a risk.”

“Lance,” said Gareth firmly, setting down his spoon, “Tristan recognized that I was going to get myself in trouble sleeping with a courtier. He _also_ \- and this is even more important so _listen_ \- Tristan was maybe the first person in Camelot to realize how much that mission to the Orkneys changed me. I came back and Arthur made me a Knight of the Round Table because I’d earned that, but Tristan was the first one to stop looking at me and seeing a child.

“I damn well hope so,” slipped out before I could help it.

Gareth gave me a Look, then asked, “Are you really going to try to tell me that you didn’t look at me differently after that year?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Because Gareth was right. He had left as a boy and come back undeniably a man. Not in some artificial or performative sense of the word, but in all the little ways that at the time had thoroughly disconcerted me. He had travelled north with Gawain and the twins on one of their rare visits, but while the others spent a few months playing politics, Gareth spent a year in the wildest parts of that rough land, tracking down and putting an end to the beginnings of a rebel force that was trying to reignite the border war. When he had returned, he had finally reached his full growth, and the months of hard living had stripped him of what little childhood softness had remained, while adding bulk to his muscles for the first time. He turned up, road-weary, hair short and roughly cut as if he had done it himself with a dagger, and actually wearing stubble for the first time in all the years I had known him.

It was his eyes that had changed most though. I had once undertaken a similar task, and I knew just how brutal and bloody the work was. The King couldn’t send a fighting force to an unstable border to wipe out the beginnings of a rebellion, so he sent one man to do it. It was an assassination mission by another name - months and months of tracking down each thread in the complex web, then systematically and mercilessly eliminating them. Gareth had done that work well, but more important for me - for _us_ \- was the fact that that year of separation, and his growth during it, was probably the only reason that I could look at him now and see a man that I could sleep with, rather than a child I had helped raise. That child was still there, but only under many _many_ layers of adulthood. That year had been a dividing line in our relationship, after which I was no longer primarily his mentor and we were equals in important ways.

Gareth had seen war twice during his teenage years, had earned his knighthood at 18, and proved himself again during that mission to the Orkneys. Gareth at twenty was not the same as most people at twenty; I knew that. In fact, in many ways he was a great deal like _Arthur_ at twenty - still young and somewhat idealistic, but an experienced and ruthless warrior. Very, very much an adult.

I let out a long slow breath and realized by the way Gareth was watching me that he had been able to follow at least some of that mess of thoughts. Nonetheless, I felt it necessary to say that most important part out loud. “You’re right, of course. You came back after that year, and for the first time I could see you as someone _separate_ from the boy I met when he was eight, and trained for years afterward. You grew beyond that, and that’s...honestly probably the only reason I am at all comfortable sleeping with you now.”

His face softened and he smiled at me a little. “Good. And please don’t be too mad at Tristan, alright? Ultimately he was good for me. He…” Gareth glanced away, thinking, then met my gaze, “He taught me that it was okay to want to be with other men, that it was okay to seek out pleasure in other men. He taught me the importance of _talking_ to a lover about what we both like. And mostly he made sure I never felt ashamed, which I needed considering the dim view of same sex relationships that most people in my home village, and a lot of people here at Court have.”

I nodded, feeling real warmth for Tristan. “Good. I’m glad. I’m still...a little uncomfortable with the fact that he was sleeping with both of us at the same time-” Gareth made a face that said he _thoroughly_ agreed with that sentiment, “-but I can accept that he was good for you, and I won’t give him a piece of my mind. Alright?”

“Sounds good,” laughed Gareth, returning to his breakfast, his foot bumping companionably against mine under the table.

In fact, far from giving Tristan a piece of my mind, I decided to seek him out and let him know that there were no hard feelings between us. I caught up to him as he was leaving breakfast in the Hall and pulled him into a small room used occasionally for formal meetings.

“Look, if this is about last night, I’m sorry I never told you about Gareth…”

“It is, but it’s not what you think,” I reassured him, and told him the abbreviated version of what Gareth had told me about the importance of their relationship  (such as it was) to my lover. “So thank you, I suppose, is what I’m trying to say,” I finished awkwardly, offering him a hand.

Tristan grasped my forearm in a warrior’s greeting and smiled. And then, because this was Tristan’s mouth frequently ran away from his logic,  he ruined the moment. “You should be thanking me,” he chuckled, smile taking on a strongly suggestive edge, “I’m the reason he’s so good at pleasuring-”

I punched him before he could finish that sentence and irreparably damage our relationship. I was still holding his right hand with mine, but I’ve always had a wicked left hook and Tristan felt it now as it connected solidly with his jaw. If I’d aimed for his nose I would have broken it. I could bear a lot of things, but a detailed image of Tristan with Gareth _like that_ was not one of them apparently. He doubled over, and pain flared in my hand as well, leaching away some of my temper.

Behind me, I heard Cei stammer, “What in the name of- no. No. I don’t want to know. I’ve learned my lesson,” followed by the sound of the door closing. Poor Cei, he must have stepped into the room just as I hit Tristan.

I released Tristan’s right hand and stepped back, half expecting him to retaliate. Tristan was one of the few men in Camelot who was my equal with a sword, but I’d win a scrap with him. Instead, however, Tristan merely straightened, gingerly rubbing his jaw, and admitted, “I deserved that…”

“Fucking right you did,” I snapped before storming out of the room.

Cei jumped as the door banged open, and I rounded on him, asking rather more harshly than necessary, “Need something, Cei?”

“Unfortunately,” he muttered, before telling me that Arthur wanted the two of us - Cei and I, that is - to sit down and discuss the intelligence about Ambrosius. “He told me about your plan and how it might take you away from Camelot for a time; I think he wants to make sure that we can still utilize your network of informants,” explained Cei somewhat apologetically. I suppressed a sigh. I didn’t like it, but it made sense, so I grumpily followed Cei to his office and we settled in for a long conversation.

Neither of us noticed just how much time had passed, until a page put his head in the door, fidgeting nervously and looking anywhere but at the two of us.

“Yes?” enquired Cei brusquely.

“Umm...Sir Percival sent me to fetch you, Sir Cei. Queen Lynette and Lord Meurig are arguing and he said - Sir Percival that is - sent me because he thinks Prince Gawain and Lord Meurig might come to blows over it.”

“Oh for _fuck’s_ sake!” said Cei, all but throwing his hands up in the air. “Where are they?”

“The Queen’s Garden, milords.”

We arrived there a few minutes later, Cei panting slightly from having run the whole way. (I was not out of breath, I was pleased to note). Sure enough, Lynette and Meurig were nose to nose, shouting at each other. Gawain was hovering, but when he tried to put a word in edgewise, presumably in Lynette’s defense, she turned her ire on him. “And don’t you start - I am perfectly capable of defending myself!” Gawain made a gesture of surrender, but his eyes were dark with anger as he watched Meurig , and I did not fail to notice that his hand moved to rest on the pommel of his sword. From a man as calm as Gawain, that was no idle gesture, and Percival was not one for exaggeration, so I trusted that his concern about Gawain’s state of mind was valid.

As I sussed out the content of the argument, I realized just how much self-restraint Gawain must be exercising. It was impossible to tell what had started the dispute, but at this point it seemed to have boiled down to Lord Meurig holding forth about how a woman could not and should not run a kingdom on her own, while Lynette colorfully dis-abused him of that notion. Meurig took issue with that too, of course, his diatribe interspersed with criticisms of Lynette’s “unladylike, uncouth, disrespectful behavior while in Camelot.”

Lynette’s response (predictable to those who knew her) was to tell him that he could “Bloody well _get over it,_ no one asked for your worthless opinion, you cringing little worm. You wouldn’t know what to do with a crown if someone hit you over the head with it so you’ve no business telling me how to run _my bloody country_!”

“Ah yes,” muttered Cei next to me, “The Loathly Lady.”

I turned to glare at him, irritated that he too had picked up the insulting nickname, but before I could say anything, he was already moving to break up the argument. At almost the same moment, Arthur arrived, Gareth in tow. Guinevere was just a few moments behind them, taking in the situation at a glance and going to stand beside Lynette as Cei carefully put some space between the visiting queen and the errant lord by placing one hand on Meurig’s shoulder and pressing him back a few steps. Arthur, meanwhile, loomed with his arms crossed over his chest and what I imagined was a forbidding expression on his face (his back was to me so I could not tell). Gareth paused a few steps from me, looking over the scene uncertainly. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Ambrosius lurking, watching. It struck me that this would be a good moment to drive home for him the idea that Gareth and I were at odds, and I cast about for an idea.

Arthur was lecturing the pair about being courteous while under his roof, and with half an idea I walked closer, putting myself in my usual place - the Champion’s place - by his left shoulder. That was also the side which Meurig was on, and I turned a dark, assessing glare on the man, like I thought he might be a threat to my king. Mentally, I reached out to Gareth, pushing the name _Ambrosius_ at him in an effort to make him understand that it would be useful to orchestrate a confrontation. I sensed his understanding, but also his caution; we couldn’t force this.

By happy accident, the unwitting participants in our little drama accommodated us. Just as it looked like things were going to settle down, Meurig tossed over his shoulder at Gawain, “Keep your bitch in line why don’t you!”

Gawain spun back around, hand going to his sword. Meurig reached for his as well, and I reacted, placing myself firmly between Meurig and Arthur, a dagger appearing in my grasp almost without a thought. Gareth did the same, and we ended up shoulder to shoulder. It felt good, even though for appearances sake we would have to pretend otherwise.

Arthur pushed calmly between us. “Meurig  I suggest you take your hand off your weapon before something _unfortunate_ occurs. Gawain…”

Gawain just tipped his chin up defiantly. He was Heir, and fighting carried risks - not just physical risks, but the probability of making a lifetime enemy of a powerful family. But he clearly did not want to back down, defying his uncle’s unspoken request. Instead, he looked to Lynette and asked, “What do you want, m’lady?” A ripple went through the crowd, awe and discomfort at how readily Gawain ignored the King.

Lynette just stared at him for a long moment, clearly surprised as well, though perhaps for different reasons, then she said slowly, “I _want_ everyone to stop harassing me, but seeing as that is unlikely….” she paused and looked Meurig up and down appraisingly. He swallowed hard, as if realizing for the first time that he might be in over his head. Lynette went on, holding herself a little taller and straighter, regal, “I’ll let it go this one last time, but the next person to insult me to my face or spread vicious rumors about me - by all means, my lord, deal with them as you see fit.” It was a pronouncement, a command. Lynette was technically a queen, and for the first time I could really _see_ it.

The way Gawain’s hand tightened on his sword left no doubt about how he would be dealing with such transgressions. Then he sketched a little bow to Lynette, and another to the King, and swept off, red cloak fluttering in his wake. Arthur’s lips thinned in unhappiness as he watched his nephew go, but he made no direct comment about it, instead turning to Lynette and saying, “I feel I should apologize for how you have been treated by my Court; it had escaped my notice just how bad it had become.”

Lynette inclined her head in acceptance and Arthur turned toward the castle to return to whatever he had been pulled away from. I made to follow, but found myself face to face with Gareth, one of his hands pressed into my chest, keeping me from stepping forward. I gave him a confused look and he said coolly, “You should go with the Queen.”

I allowed my lip to curl a little in disgust. “I was King’s Champion for two decades-” I started to say, but Gareth interrupted me.

“Exactly. You _were._ ” And with no further comment he went after the King, leaving me standing in a half circle of very interested nobles, whispering among themselves about the drama they had just witnessed, all eyeing me with morbid fascination.

I swallowed down an unexpected sensation of nausea, and pulled myself together enough to turn to Guinevere and make a polite little gesture. “Shall we?” Even to me, my voice sounded tight and pained. She gave me a deeply sympathetic look that was somehow almost more painful than Gareth’s words, then led the way into the castle.

To my immense relief, Guinevere walked only a short way down a passage before ducking into a deserted room. I closed the door behind us and leaned against it heavily, taking slow, deliberate breaths and trying to wrestle my emotions back under control. _Gods, it was just for show,_ I told myself. _Everything is fine, we’re just putting on a show for Ambrosius._ A moment later Guinevere was embracing me, and I wrapped my arms around her in relief, holding her close and breathing in the calming scent of her hair. We weren’t lovers, but we _were_ uncommonly close friends, and I appreciated her silent support more than I could say.

Somewhat distantly, I was also aware that Gareth, was concerned by my distress and attempting to reassure me along our bond. It made me feel slightly better, but the rest of the afternoon passed in a haze as I tried to ignore the increasingly knowing and pitying looks from everyone I passed in the course of following Guin about her duties.

*  * *  *

I wasn’t sure what hurt more: the act of embarrassing Lancelot in front of a crowd, or the fact that they actually believed that I would. Obviously, it could not be common knowledge that I _loved_ him, but I would have thought that after all these years people could see that we were close. Then again, in general, people only saw what they wanted to see, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, we were banking on people - particularly Ambrosius - only seeing what they wanted to see. (I had to swallow a wave of nausea at reminder that what they _wanted_ was to see Lance toppled from the pedestal that _they_ had placed him on; I wondered again why I had any faith at all in humanity.)

I could feel his distress from halfway across the castle, but knew I could not go to him yet; I had to stay with the King. What I could do was let him feel my love and apology along our bond, and tried to maintain that connection for the rest of the afternoon.

There was to be a Court feast that night, and I for one was dreading it. Lance was too, to the extent that he was wondering if he could find an excuse not to go. In a semi private moment, I leaned close to the King and asked, “Would it help our cause for Lancelot to skip dinner tonight?”

“He doesn’t want to come?” Asked Arthur, then immediately answered his own question, “No I’m sure he doesn’t.” I nodded. The King considered briefly, then said, “You’ll have to sit in his usual place, but I think it could indeed help our cause. You and Lance have to be fully committed to this now, though. We need Ambrosius to believe it and start trusting Lance.”

“I know, Sire.” And for the sake of the kingdom, we would do it. At the rate things were going, however, we were going to need another vacation to Lance’s villa when it was all over.

Lancelot and I were able to see each other briefly before the feast, when I returned to our rooms to change slightly. As soon as I saw him, I wrapped him in the tightest hug I could manage, startling a choked little laugh out of him. He patted my head gently, “Alright alright, there’s no reason to try to break my ribs…” I loosened my grip lightly but continued to hold him, resting my head against his shoulder.

“I’m terribly sorry about-”

“You don’t need to apologize, it was a good idea. Perfect.”

“I’m still sorry. Also, you don’t need to come to dinner, but I’m going to have your place at the table. We’re...sort of going all in on this now.”

“Good. Get it over with and deal with Ambrosius once and for all.”

I certainly hoped that Lance was right about how this was going to work out. We stood like that for a long moment, and when I still didn’t move away from his embrace I could sense Lance’s growing concern about _my_ state of mind. “Gareth, are _you_ going to be able to do this?”

I nodded into his chest. “I’ll manage. It’s my job after all, and you made me good at it. I just don’t much enjoy this particular bit.” I felt pride swell within Lance at mhy words, and he hugged me a little tighter. Thinking about it a little more, I added, “In fact, I suppose that doing this well is something of a...compliment to you - for training me so well.” This, I decided, was how I was going to survive the next days and weeks.

Lancelot buried his nose in my hair and sucked in a sharp breath, the sound of a man trying not to break down in tears. Then he kissed me once, very hard, and pushed back to put a little space between us, knowing that if he did not do so I would never make it down to dinner on time.

 

Dinner was a profoundly awkward affair. I was seated between Ambrosius and Cei, to the King’s left. I didn’t like being separated from the King, but the dictates of courtesy more or less demanded the arrangement. In some ways, it was fortuitous, because it gave Ambrosius an opportunity to pester me. The empty seat beside Guinevere, and Lancelot’s absence from dinner entirely, obviously interested him - and everyone else in the room. There was a great deal of pointing and whispering as people noticed my sudden (apparent) rise in station. In made me want to sink into the floor and hide, but I forced myself to sit up straight and try to look unaffected, even when Ambrosius spoke to me.

“It seems unusual for Sir Lancelot to miss supper. Is he well?”

“I would not know, Your Grace,” I responded cooly, barely glancing up from my food.

“Not on speaking terms at the moment?” he suggested, tone smug and yet vaguely wheedling. I briefly imagined punching him in his obnoxious hooked nose, then turned and offered him a dry smile.

“Not particularly, no.”

“I understand that he was your mentor for many years. It must be hard to witness that relationship...sour.”

This time I could reply with honest emotion in my voice. “Yes. It is.”

To my surprise, Ambrosius stopped prodding at the topic, and turned instead to Arthur to ask about the harvest season. However, by the time the meal wound down, he had worked the conversation back around the Lancelot, and even I was impressed by how deftly Arthur handled the misdirection we were perpetrating.

“You must be...disappointed at your champion’s absence.”

Arthur slid a look at me, then replied pointedly, “My champion is here. Lancelot may do as he pleases.”

“Ah so the protege usurps the mentor at last,” murmured Ambrosius. Arthur chose to ignore him. I, meanwhile, felt a bit like someone had punched me.

The idea of becoming King’s Champion was, in theory, appealing to me, but I hated that this was the first time I was being given the title, implicitly or otherwise. It bothered me not so much because it was false as because it was at Lancelot’s expense. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to smile mildly at Ambrosius, who looked vaguely taken aback. I hoped we had not pushed things too quickly with him.

*  *  *  *

I lurked in the Royal Suite during dinner, eating the light meal I had sent for but not really tasting it. Gareth’s words had got me thinking. I was touched by his view of this as a particularly challenging mission and a chance to put to use the skills I had given him. It occured to me that I should probably view it the same way. I was so emotionally involved in certain aspects of this that until now I had failed to step back and treat it like any other mission I undertook for the King - a particularly unpleasant one, perhaps, but no more so than some others I could think of. So I spent my solitary meal getting myself back into the appropriate headspace for this sort of thing, then made my way down to the part of the garden where I knew Amrobisus liked to lurk. I left my red cloak behind.

It did not take Ambrosius long to find me after the feast ended. Gareth and Arthur must have done their jobs well, for he was smirking a little when he saw me slouching against the wall, half in shadow. “Rough day?” He enquired, ill-concealed glee in his voice. I blinked slowly, paused as if considering, then nodded once. “It is not coincidence that you are here, is it?”

“I was...hoping to speak to you,” I allowed.

“It has not been nearly a week and I told you to wait a week.” I gritted my teeth, genuinely annoyed, and opened my mouth to retort, but Ambrosius breezed on. “I believe you’ve had a falling out, but I remain unconvinced that you would actually give up your life here.”

I fixed him with a glare and felt my lip curl a little in irritation. “What do you want?” I snapped, my tone making it clear that it was not a rhetorical question.

“I want to believe that you want what I am offering. I want to believe that you will really forsake your friends here.”

“What friends?” I spat back, but he laughed at me.

“Oh Lancelot, I’m not a fool, I-”

“I’m royalty, back in Gaul,” I reminded him sharply, leaning close into his personal space, “And I am tired of being treated like a- like an old war horse ready to be put out to pasture by the people here who were my comrades and friends. And I don’t need to be condescended to by _you_ either dammit. You know what _I_ want, Ambrosius? I want the chance to prove myself again. It’s become clear to me that I won’t have that chance here, or in Gaul if I go back, but it seems to me that I might have it with you.”

Ambrosius took a careful step back, clearly uncomfortable with my nearness. We were of a height, but of the two of us I was undoubtedly the more threatening, especially in the late evening darkness. “Yes, you might. I will think on it and-”

“Don’t think too long,” I suggested.

“Perhaps I don’t want a man looking only to prove himself.”

“Perhaps,” I agreed, “But I think you _do_ want a man who knows the King’s mind, and that I do. I fought by his side long enough to know how he thinks, and to know the weaknesses in this country’s defenses, the divisions in the Court.”

“What makes you think my...my own sources cannot give me the same information. Or that I would need it in the first place.”

I laughed darkly while frantically casting about for a bit of information I could give him, something that would seem significant without risking our actual plans. The political bit of this really was not my forte. Then, with a flash of inspiration, I recalled something. Ambrosius was already turning away, but that only served my purpose when I was able to stop him with the words: “Arthur may have civil war on his border in the east soon.”

Ambrosius paused, cocked his head slightly, then turned back to me with a pointedly raised eyebrow. “There have been no stirrings among the Saxons.”

“There are always stirrings among the Saxons,” I countered, “But that is not what I’m talking about.” With a silent apology to my friends, I went on, “Lynette’s uncle is is going to make a bid for her throne. He has the legal standing - Lyonesse has never had female inheritance before, and by rights he should have succeeded his elder brother, Lynette’s father. She usurped his place, but Lynette is not going to let go of that crown lightly now that she has it and, well…” I paused for effect, “I think it is quite clear that she is not the sort of woman to be reasoned with.”

Ambrosius considered me narrowly for a moment, then smiled slowly, a predatory expression, and left without another word. I stood for a moment, breathing hard, then took a disused passage back up to the Royal Suite, running through the dark corridors. I needed to tell Arthur and the others what I had done so they would not try to downplay the threat posed by Lynette’s uncle. The reality was that our intelligence suggested that her uncle was only discussing the possibility and had not yet made a concrete move to take armed action, but with a little luck Ambrosius’ spies would back up the substance of my words since they were very much based in reality. (If he even had spies in Lyonesse, I amended mentally). We just couldn’t have Lynette or Gawain trying to put him off the scent if he came asking; it would be better for Lynette if her political troubles were made to seem insignificant, but her needs would have be subordinated to the needs of Arthur’s kingdom for a time.

I caught Arthur in his study, and we summoned Gareth, Guinevere, and Gawain. I briefly related my encounter with Ambrosius to all four of them, earning myself a warm embrace from Arthur and an impressed look from Gawain. “I’ll speak to Lynette,” he promised and I nodded my thanks.

Gareth was looking at my closely, and after a moment he said, “I think we need to do something to tip Ambrosius over the edge, convince him that you no longer have a place here - something to convince him of your willingness to leave. We need to make it appear that you are well and truly cut off from everyone here.”

“You have an idea?” I asked, although I felt a little ill at the suggestion - as did Gareth.

“I do. I think we should pretend that I overheard you speaking to him last night about Lyonesse. Just that part of the conversation, not what came before. Let me confront you publically about it and-”

I saw in his mind’s eye what he was thinking and said it before he could, “Let it devolve into a fight. Let me lose to you where everyone can see.” I had pulled arrows out of my own flesh before. That was comparably painful to saying those words and thinking about what it would mean to go through with it.

Arthur blew out a slow breath. “ _Damn_ that’s a good idea, but…”

“You’ll need to tell us both off for it after,” Gareth continued, and I felt an echo of his own dread.

“Of course,” murmured Arthur. He looked between us for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “I hate this. I think it will work, and I do think this is the only way to discover the extent of Ambrosius’ treachery, but _damn_ do I hate everything about this.”

I had rarely agreed with a sentiment more.

 


	11. Chapter 10: Dreams and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10: Dreams and Nightmares (and how can they quickly they change?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. It's been a while since I posted a chapter. I am currently preparing for a big move and new job, so life has been hectic. (I'm also working two jobs in the meantime lol). As I have promised before: I'm not going to abandon this story (I love it, I love writing it, I have tons and tons planned and frankly some of my favorite bits are yet to come). But the unfortunate reality is that my updates are going to be sporadic : /. (If you have an account, hit that subscribe button and you'll get helpful little emails when I do post.) 
> 
> I finished writing this tonight, and it is only lightly edited. I figured it was better to post it once it was finally done rather than fuss over it. As always, if there are egregious errors, drop me a comment (or a message on Tumblr). I would seriously appreciate it. 
> 
> This chapter is a bit of plot and a bit of smut, also a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, so hopefully you can enjoy that : ).

I was fourteen the first time I saw a battle in person. I was not _in_ it mind, but plenty close enough to see and hear and _smell_ \- close enough to be in danger if something went wrong. I had been appropriately nervous that grey spring morning, adrenaline running through my veins, heart hammering in my chest as if I was running. And though I had undoubtedly faced more nerve wracking situations in the intervening ten years, I was sure that this was the first time since that day that my hands had shaken so very badly.

Lancelot and I were going to stage a fight between the two of us, hopefully convincing Ambrosius to admit Lance into his confidence so we could discover the extent of his planning. Heading off a civil war was an admirable purpose, but I dreaded what I had to do now - not only because making a scene went against my nature, but because it was going to humiliate Lance, and I was agonizingly aware of how painful that was going to be for him. But we had no choice.

I took a steadying breath, squared my shoulders, and fixed a forbidding expression on my face, then pushed open the door into the Great Hall. It was mid-morning, filled with courtiers enjoying a late breakfast and staff restocking the tables of food. Rain pattered against the high stained glass windows, and the banners of the Round Table swayed slightly where they hung from the rafters, moving in the draft. I knew Lancelot had come through a different door a few minutes earlier. It was not uncommon for the Knights to take advantage of this breakfast spread; the only reason Lancelot and I typically did not was because we lived in the Royal Suite, where breakfast was delivered for the King and Queen most days. Today Lance was pretending to eat here, and my eyes found him quickly, chatting with Gaheris on the other side of the room. Gaheris was in on our little plan, since we wanted at least one ally in the room in case something went wrong.

Eyes narrowing, I stalked over to the two of them, aware that a number of people were staring - and moving hastily out of my way. Apparently I looked appropriately angry. Reaching Lancelot, I put a firm hand on his shoulder and spun him around to face me. “We need to talk.”

Lancelot raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Oh? Do we? Well then, say your piece.”

“I’d rather speak privately.” He turned away, rolling his eyes, and I pretended to lose my patience. “Fine. I want to know who the hell you think you are, running off to _Ambrosius_ and tattling about problems our allies are having!”

Lance turned back to me, his left hand moving to rest on his sword hilt in a deceptively casual gesture. Gaheris took a couple steps back, contriving to look both fascinated and concerned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lance said lowly, his voice taking on a dark, dangerous edge.

“Oh like hell you don’t. I heard you last night, talking to him in the garden, tell him all about problems in Lyonesse.”

“Did you hear the whole conversation?”

“I don’t need-”

“Keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you,” he said, dripping condescension, and made to walk away. I grabbed his arm and spun him back around violently, fastening my other hand into the front of his doublet and giving him a little shake.

“Don’t _fucking_ talk to me like! I am so fucking sick and tired of you-”

He shoved me back, hard enough to make me stumble.

This was more or less what we had planned. Without discussing the details of what would be said, we had agreed that I would be the one to make it physical, and he would be the one to draw his sword first. He did so now, part of the same fluid movement he had used to push me away. I responded in kind and the room went _deathly_ still and quiet. Arthur’s Knights did not fight in public.

I feinted, drew him into an attack. Neither of us were going to bring our full skill to bear, except inasmuch as it took a great deal of skill to pull of a fight in which the conclusion was predetermined and still make it look real. I, for one, did not want this to go on for more than a few moments. For one thing, speed would add to the shock of it, and for another I was hating every moment of this. We exchanged three or four quick, probing blows, then I lunged forward, two quick steps taking me into Lance’s personal space, and proceeded to use the same trick I had used early in the summer at his villa. It probably only worked because he knew he had to lose, but nonetheless I think I surprised him a bit just how effective it was. I batted his sword out of the way with mine, grabbed his arm and threw my other elbow into his sternum, placing my foot behind his so that his own momentum sent him tumbling to the ground. His sword skittered across the floor, the grating sound painfully loud in the oppressive silence that surrounded us.

*  * *  *

Gareth did exactly as he had that day we were sparring at my villa, and now as then I found myself sprawled ignominiously on my back. This time, however, he actually went so far as to place one foot firmly on my chest, and set the tip of his sword against my neck. My heart thudded painfully and bloody rushed in my ears, all my battle instincts screaming at me that I was in deadly danger and had to keep fighting, while part of me was genuinely held immobile with shock at the speed and ruthlessness with which Gareth had just humiliated me in front of half the Court.

He was...similarly taken aback, and half sick at having to do this. He covered it by stepping back quickly, like a man who had reacted more harshly than he intended, before staring at me for a moment with an inscrutable expression on his face. Then he turned and rapidly walked away, shoulders tense and unhappy, sword still in hand. The courtiers and servants parted easily before him, some practically scrambling aside, giving him a wide berth and stunned looks.

I watched him go before slowly and painfully picking myself up off the floor, exaggerating the stiffness in my body. I could do this, I repeated to myself; my pride had taken a blow before and it could do so again, in the interest of preventing war. I still hated every moment of it, my skin crawling at the feeling of dozens of judging eyes on me. I retrieved my sword from where it had fallen and stormed out in the opposite direction that Gareth had taken.

We both went to the same place, however - our rooms. We knew we were about to be summoned for a very public dressing down by the King, but we both needed a moment together before then. Gareth entered a few moments after I shut the door, and stood by it awkwardly for a second. “Can I…”

I understood what he meant only because of our the unspoken words humming along our bond, propelled it seemed by the intense tangle of emotions he felt. _Can I hug you? Am I still allowed to touch you?_ Rather than answer aloud, I went over and embraced him fiercely, squeezing until I felt sure his leather breastplate was leaving bruises on my arms. He returned the gesture just as strongly, and enjoyed the discomfort of my ribs bowing slightly under his powerful grip. After a long minute of that, we both relaxed somewhat, but I continued to hold him close. We didn’t say anything, just continued to enjoy each other’s nearness and silent support.

All too soon, a knock sounded on the door and Geraint’s voice said, “The King wants to see you in the Audiences Room.”

Since the Great Hall was used as a communal gathering place, a second, slightly smaller hall was used as the Audiences Room. Perhaps it was more properly the _Throne Room_ , but Arthur hated the phrase so none of us called it that. Regardless of the name it was given, it was a strictly formal location in a way that the Great Hall only was during feasts. This was not going to be pleasant.

Gareth and I made our way down in continued silence, but I could feel his rising anxiety. He had never in his life here at Camelot gotten in any sort of serious trouble, and given that he still viewed himself as something of an outsider this was going to be especially uncomfortable for him. I knew now that one driver of Gareth’s unimpeachably good behavior (and perfect courtesy) over the years had been his fear of being sent away from Court. He had nothing to go back to, no land or title. It was an unpleasantly tenuous existence, until he established himself as a Knight of the Round Table, and now Queen’s Champion. Even so, the effects of living with that mindset for so many years did not evaporate overnight, and I worried that this was going to bring all of them to the fore.

Stepping into the Audience Chamber I felt my own steps falter for a moment. There were plenty of curious onlookers, of course, but my attention was immediately on Arthur. He was standing on the dais at the far end, just in front of his throne. His arms were crossed over his chest and he wore a dark, deeply displeased expression. And a crown. Arthur almost never actually wore his crown for anything other than formal audiences, the reception of visiting dignitaries, or certain events. He wore a gold circlet often as not, but today he was wearing his actual crown, heavy and gold and set around with rubies. This was Arthur making a point. Plenty of people in Britain forgot that I was a king in my own right, but not all. Arthur stood there in all his finery as the High King to remind them and me just who ruled here. I swallowed hard. Fuck this was going to be unpleasant.

Gareth and I walked slowly to the front of the room and stopped a few paces from the dais. It took everything in me to raise my head and meet Arthur’s eyes, and I found I could only hold his gaze for a moment. My insides went cold and I forced out a shaky breath. The King looked properly angry, and it hurt to be on the receiving end of that even if it was, theoretically, and act.

I tuned out most of the lecture that Arthur gave us, my awareness of the world around me slowly fading into shades of grey as I focused on keeping my face blank and swallowing down the emotion that welled up within me. I had plenty of experience with this; my father had been angry at me often enough that I had learned long, long ago how to let it wash over and through me without visibly reacting. I wanted to react - I wanted to throw myself at Arthur’s feet and apologize - but I couldn’t and wouldn’t.

*  * *  *

Lancelot was worried about me as we made our way to the Audiences Chamber, but as we stood there with the King lecturing us, I realized that I should have been more worried about _him_.

“I will not have my knights fighting in my own hall,” Arthur was saying, “You should both be ashamed of yourselves, and if you were anyone else I would have you both on dishwashing duty in the kitchens for the next two days to teach you some humility. As it is, know that I am immensely displeased. Especially with you, Lancelot - I would expect better from you.”

I could feel the very real pang that went through Lance’s chest at those words. I certainly wasn’t enjoying the public telling-off, but I could set aside the embarrassment easily enough since I knew it was just an act. It was the kind of humiliation I could stand because it was a humiliation I had chosen to endure, and was enduring for good reason. But Lancelot...Lancelot was in very real emotional pain, and the way his eyes dropped and shoulders sagged was not at all an act. I wondered if Arthur could see it as clearly as I could feel it, and suspected that he did since he said nothing more, merely glowered for a few moments and then dismissed us with a harsh wave of his hand and muttered admonishment to be on better behavior.

Lancelot and I were both only too happy to retreat back to the Royal Suite once again. I could feel Lancelot wrestling with his emotions, but remained silent, giving him time. By the time we reached the study, however, his pain still radiated along our bond, and I couldn’t stand it any longer, reaching out and trying to draw him into an embrace - but he pulled away and went to stand by Arthur’s desk, silently making it clear that he didn’t want my affection just then. It hurt. And he could tell that it hurt me, yet surprisingly that did not sway him to return. Thankfully, Arthur himself appeared a few moments later and took in the situation at a glance.

He gave me a thin, lopsided smile and said, “Sorry about all that.” I waved the words away, but Lancelot did not, nor did he turn to look at his friend. Seeming unsurprised, Arthur went over and put his arm around Lancelot’s shoulders. When Lancelot tried to pull away he merely held him tighter, using his slightly greater breadth and bulk to pull Lancelot into a tight hug. “Oh Lance, I didn’t mean any of it. You’re wonderful, and I so appreciate what you’re doing right now to help me.”

Arthur’s lecture had made all of Lancelot’s old insecurities, rear their ugly heads. Years of abuse at the hands of his father and weaponsmaster had left their mark, and even after all this time it occasionally showed. Arthur and I both understood this, and I was glad that Arthur was comforting Lance where I had been unable to.

Arthur’s words were what Lancelot needed to hear, the tight ball of anxiety in his chest loosening as he gradually relaxed into a Arthur’s embrace. The King raised one hand to cradle the back of Lance’s neck gently, encouraging Lance to rest his head on his shoulder. He did so, and they stood like that for a long time, holding each other in a warm, almost intimate embrace.

I knew they had always been close, but it occured to me suddenly that I had rarely actually witnessed them being physically affectionate with each other. It was...odd. Not bad, just a bit strange. I wasn’t _threatened_ by Arthur even though I knew they had once been lovers, and that Arthur still commanded immense dedication and loyalty from Lance - love, even, if you wanted to call it that.  It was different from the love Lance felt for me, and I could never doubt his commitment to me seeing as he had once given up a part of his soul to save my life. (That still boggled my mind if I thought about it too closely). So to see Lancelot and Arthur wrapped in a warm embrace was just...pleasantly odd, if I was being entirely honest with myself. It was nice to see someone else exhibit care and gentleness toward Lance, for that was a rare thing indeed. It was also rather intriguing to see Lancelot being held by someone who could make him look small. I could sense that Lance was enjoying this as well, and I certainly understood the pleasure of being wrapped up in strong arms and made to feel safe.

After a few more moments, Arthur drew back slightly and held Lance’s head gently, making Lance look directly at him. “No one could ask for a better champion and friend than you are to me. Never doubt that I know and appreciate that.” Then Arthur leaned in and pressed a kiss to Lancelot’s forehead before finally  disentangling himself and putting a little space between them. I decided this would be a good moment to insert myself, and went over to give my lover a hug as well. He returned it fiercely though briefly, and we exchanged a few mental reassurances that we were both alright.

“I expect you two to be at supper,” Arthur said, a smile hiding in the depths of his voice, “But in the meantime, I’m sure you two could get away with staying in the suite for the rest of the day…”

“You shouldn’t be left alone with Ambrosius here,” Lancelot protested.

“I’m sure between Cei, Tristan, and Gawain, I’ll be fine,” replied Arthur dryly.

I thanked him, elbowing my lover subtly as I said, “We could both use at least a couple hours to collect ourselves, I think. Thank you.” Lance was confused until he picked up on my thoughts - then he blushed. Arthur laughed and took his leave of us with a knowing smile.

I wasn’t sure either Lance or I were entirely up for sex - I’d have been perfectly content to just lie on the bed together, but Lance seemed to be craving the physical closeness and pleasure of something more, and I most certainly wasn’t going to object. As soon a we were back in our room, the door firmly shut and locked behind us, he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me long and slow. I hummed happily into his lips and let my hands settle on his hips. We stayed like that for a while, enjoying the sort of unhurried intimacy that, due either to time or passion, we rarely engaged in.  

Gradually, Lance moved us over to the bed, still kissing. I reached for his belt, hands working slowly enough that they didn’t fumble. We left weapons and clothes in a heap on the floor before climbing up onto the mattress. Lance laid me down gently, settling between my legs, and proceeded to make love to me with the same slow but inexorable passion with which he had been kissing me. He pressed his face into my shoulder and I clung to him as our bodies moved together, reassuring each other without words that everything was right between us.

Afterward, I stopped Lance from rolling us over. Usually I enjoyed laying on top of him and being held, but today I wanted the opposite. I guided his head down to rest on my chest and stroked his hair gently. After the trauma of the day - and the way it had dredged up the far more extensive trauma of Lance’s childhood - I wanted him to feel loved and cared for. I felt him smile and the thought drifted along our bond _You do a very good job of taking care of me_ , which made me smile in turn.

I was profoundly glad that we had this moment, because I knew dinner was going to be a trial, and everything that came after even worse. But for these few moments we could just _be_ and enjoy each other.

“So,” said Lancelot sometime later, just as I was beginning to doze off, “When do you think Gawain is going to ask Lynette to marry him?”

*  * *  *

Gareth’s startlement was both amusing and gratifying, and I found myself chuckling into his shoulder. My lover recovered quickly, however, and retorted, “What makes you think she won’t beat him to it?” I laughed harder, rolling off of Gareth to lay beside him instead. But Gareth grew serious again. “They’d be a good match, but do you think Lynette would ever actually entertain the idea?”

“Why wouldn’t she? They’re good together.”

“This is Lynette we’re talking about. I’m not sure she would want to marry. Certainly it would have to be on her terms, and marrying the High King’s Heir is not a great way to make that happen. Besides, she pretty well detests Court.”

“ _Court_ detests _her_ ,” I replied, “I’m not convinced that she hates it so much - just the way certain people treat her.”

Gareth was quiet for a long time, thinking about that, then said, “Want to make a bet?”

“Sure,” I agreed, “I think Gawain will ask by the end of the year.”

“I think Lynette will ask.”

We shared a grin and made a silent agreement about what the loser would ‘pay’, and I suddenly felt lighter than I had in days.

That lasted approximately until I saw the seating arrangements for dinner. I had known I would not be sat next to Arthur - that was (unofficially) Gareth’s place now - but I was unpleasantly surprised to realize that I had actually been moved two seats away from Guinevere. It was a blatant and painful message for everyone to see that I had fallen from favor. I forced myself to block out everything except my bond with Gareth and the chatter from the Orkney twins beside me. It was unusual for Gaheris and Geraint to eat at the high table at all, but obviously they had decided that today they needed to keep me company. I appreciated it, and their bright chatter was a pleasant distraction even though I couldn’t bring myself to engage in it.

Going to bed with Gareth that night was a relief, but a short-lived one.

 _“You should be ashamed of yourself.” Arthur’s words from earlier echoed around my head and I could hear laughter and jeering. Then the words of his lecture morphed into the critiques that my weapons master and father used to hurl at me: useless, worthless, endangering those I cared about with my failures. Hearing that come from Arthur hurt even more, and I tried to turn away but found I_ couldn’t _. Panic rose in my chest and my heart beat painfully against my ribs as I sought frantically for a way to make it_ stop _\- please something_ anything _\- but found none. I covered my ears but could still hear the words as they echoed in my mind and pierced me like arrows._

I woke gasping, curled on my side with my arms over my head. Gareth was beside me, stroking my hair and murmuring comforting words in an effort to wake me gently, but I could feel his anxiety along our bond. Gradually, I caught my breath and convinced my muscles to loosen, slowly straightened out my limbs until I was lying on my back, but I didn’t try to say anything just yet, not quite trusting my voice. I had not had a nightmare like that since Gareth and I had started sleeping together, and it was probably a testament to the stress of the last few days - but particularly of today - that I had had one now. It was embarrassing, really.

“Don’t you start that,” Gareth admonished me gently, laying down beside me and wrapping one arm firmly around my waist, “It was a nightmare and it was entirely understandable.” I didn’t argue, lacking both the energy and the inclination; I just lay there, breathing slowly and steadily, enjoying the feel of Gareth’s warmth and strength. After a few minutes, my lover spoke again, surprising me by asking, “What...before I...Before we were together, what happened when you had nightmares? Were you alone?”

His concern was touching, and I hoped he could tell that I felt that way because I lacked the emotional energy to voice it aloud. In response to his question I said, “I would usually go find Arthur - or he’d hear me and come wake me. I actually spent quite a few nights…” _in his bed,_ I finished mentally before finding a somewhat less awkward way to continue aloud. “Well, when we were on campaign we usually shared a tent so it wasn’t an issue. And once we started spending more time here in Camelot...Let’s just say that there was some irony in people thinking I was sleeping with the Queen, since I was in fact sleeping in their bed on occasion. Arthur would insist when I was having nightmares and it...I appreciated it. I was always able to sleep well there.”

Gareth was surprised by that revelation, but then realized that he probably shouldn’t have been. I appreciated his understanding and pressed a kiss to the top of his head in silent thanks. As I drifted off again, Gareth’s thoughts turned to earlier that day when Arthur had embraced me so warmly, and I realized with some amusement and pleasure his positive feelings about that. “You just think I need to be taken care of,” I laughed, words blurred with sleep.

“I do,” he replied, giving me a kiss, then thought, _You deserve it_.

I returned the kiss happily, hands sliding down to Gareth’s waist as my body tried to decide if it was more interested in sleep or sex. Gareth laughed against my lips. “Sleep. We’ll have time in the morning.”

“Aren’t we supposed to get up to have a meeting with Arthur and everyone?”

“I’ll make sure we’re up in time,” Gareth promised. I believed him - or perhaps I was just very tired - and I dropped off back to sleep.

The next time I woke was pure bliss: Gareth was kissing me slowly, his hand inside my sleeping pants, languidly stroking my already hard cock. I groaned and pulled him closer to me, hooking a leg around him before I was even really aware of what was going on. “Ah- you...if you want this to last you need to stop,” I gasped. But Gareth just smiled into my lips and tightened his grip while licking deeply into my mouth, forcing me to tip my head back in a way that was almost uncomfortable. I loved it, pinned to the bed and drowning in the smell of him and the pleasure he was giving me.

I came with a little choked cry, back arching off the bed, before slumping down into the soft mattress. For the space of a few minutes, I let myself float in a lovely haze while Gareth stroked my hair and nuzzled sweetly at my neck, but I could tell he had not yet had his release. Smiling a little to myself, I gently pushed him off of me and rolled over so I was face down on the bed.

*  * *  *

Lance stretched out and spread his legs a little, an open invitation that I would have understood even without the little mental nudge that accompanied it. Understood but hardly believed. With our emotional connection, however, I could have no doubt that Lancelot wanted this for me. Even though he had already come, he was asking me to take my own pleasure from his body. That was almost enough to make me come then and there. Instead I tried to let him feel how much I appreciated and _wanted_ this. Lance cast me a little smile - a smirk - over his shoulder, and I didn’t stall any longer, scrambling over to the edge of the bed and fumbling in the drawer for our oil. When I had decided to wake Lancelot up the way I did, I had thought I might get the same treatment in return, which I would have been perfectly content with. It made the sudden offer of proper sex that much more exciting.  

I quickly stripped off my own clothes, and relieved Lance of the soft pants he wore to sleep. He sighed a little, a happy sound, and squirmed against the sheets. He felt warm and comfortable - emotionally and physically - and that made me smile. I kept half of my attention on Lance’s emotions as I coated my fingers in oil and pressed them into his body, enjoying the dual sensation of power that I got from being allowed to do this, and the feeling of submission and even mild humiliation that resonated along our bond.

My desire had built to a nearly painful level, but as I began to fuck him I tried to set a slow pace, aware that it was far too soon for Lance to be hard again (which was why I so appreciated this gesture) and not wanting to hurt him. To my surprise, however, Lance pressed his hips back, silently telling me to go harder. I had never before known him to enjoy the feeling of being _used_ like this, but I could also tell that, still half asleep and deeply contented, he _did_ want this. He wanted it for me, and he was enjoying giving me something unexpected, enjoying my surprise and pleasure and slight awe. So I took him up on the offer, gripped his hips, and gave myself over to my own slightly desperate pursuit for release. It did not take me long to find.

After, I laid beside him and pulled him close to my body and kissed his hair. We stayed like that, half asleep in the comfortable dark of the early morning, until it was time to get up and face the day. Neither of us was looking forward to what came next, but we both felt better than we had the night before.

We could not walk into the meeting shoulder to shoulder as we would have liked due to the risk of someone seeing us together; I arrived first, catching up a scone and throwing myself somewhat moodily into a chair. But when Lance arrived a few minutes later, after most of the rest of our company had already gathered, he came straight over to me and kissed the top of my head on his way to the food laid out on a table off to one side of the room. It was a deeply unusual semi-public display of affection, and I went warm all over. Arthur smiled, as if seeing it made him happy; Gaheris smirked at me in a way that suggested that he was going to rag on me for it later; Tristan gave Lance a very similar look; and Lynette and Gawain glanced awkwardly at each other, then looked away so quickly that I almost laughed.

“So then,” said Arthur, and immediately all attention turned to him, “Let’s get started, shall we?”


	12. Chapter 11: Allies and Enemies  (and how can we tell the difference?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot and Gareth go their separate ways for the time being, and have to find their footing in a new dynamic of allies and enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! And I posted a chapter! I know it's been months, but I moved to a new city and started a new job and then the holidays and, well, life happened. The saddest part is that this chapter has been mostly written for weeks, but I was stuck on one part that just refused to cooperate. I'm not 100% satisfied, and I'm sure my editing job was slopping, but I decided better to post it and move on and hope that helps me get some momentum back on writing this story!
> 
> A sincere thank you to anyone who has stuck with me thus far, especially through the long hiatus : )

The day after Lancelot and I staged our fight, Ambrosius announced that he was leaving Camelot. He gave no particular reason, simply thanked his cousin (with a cold, ungrateful smile), and said he would depart the following afternoon. 

I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. One day. We had one day until Lancelot had to leave, and it made me want to cry. I was actually a little surprised by how disturbed I was. Lancelot, half a castle away from where I stood in the Audience Chamber, noticed and was immediately concerned for me. While Arthur made polite conversation for a few moments, I decided to test the limits of my ever-strengthening bond with my lover. Recently, we had been able to exchange limited words when we were close to each other, so now I tried across a much greater distance to convey to Lancelot what had occured. I focused on our bond, as I did when seeking out where he was, or the detail of what he was feeling, then I thought clearly and simply  _ Ambrosius is leaving tomorrow. _ I immediately sensed Lancelot’s dismay, and got an impression of  _ What?!  _

He repeated the question aloud when I next saw him in person, waiting for Arthur and I in the study a little later. The King raised one eyebrow in question at Lancelot’s outburst and said, “I take it you have already heard that Ambrosius is taking his leave rather abruptly…”

My lover glanced guiltily at me before admitting slowly, “Gareth may have...sort of...told me…”

Arthur looked back and forth between us for a moment before saying, “I hate to pry, but all things considered I think I have to.  _ How  _ did Gareth do that when he hasn’t been out of my sight this whole time?”

“Our bond has gotten stronger,” I said by way of a simple explanation, wanting to move on. The King accepted this with a bland head tilt, and I got my wish. The conversation turned instead to last-minute planning and decision-making, hashing out what Lance would and would it give Ambrosius in the way of insight into Arthur’s Court and Army. Arthur sent for Cei, Gawain, and the Queen, and the six of us gathered for an impromptu planning session. Undoubtedly Gaheris, Lynette, and others would have been valuable, but we had limited time and did not want to draw undue attention to ourselves. 

“I say, feel free to be honest about court drama, maybe play it up. Let him think there is more dissent and division than there really is,” suggested Arthur. 

I added, “You could revive that rumor from a few years ago that you and Gawain are at odds.” 

“Me too,” said Cei, “In fact, everyone always assumes that the three of us are competing for power and the King’s favor. You should be able to do quite a bit with that.”

Lance nodded but Arthur looked unhappy. “Mm. Well, that’s good but it won’t be enough. We need to discuss what you can say about my suspicions of Ambrosius, and about the army’s preparations….”

To my vague surprise, Lancelot answered immediately, “Oh that’s simple. You don’t trust him as far as you can throw him, and you know he’s been coordinating with some of his old allies, but with the intelligence you’ve gotten you think he is going to try to overthrow Mark. Maybe I’ll even tell him that you assume he would never have the nerve to move against you - that might goad him into telling me something.”

It was Cei’s turn to jump in again. “And I’ve already spoken to Lancelot about my contacts in Ambrosius’ household and how to use them to pass information to us. I’ve made arrangements for an additional messenger relay so anything from Lance will reach us in a matter of a couple of days or less.” 

“As long as it won’t draw attention.”

“It won’t,” said Cei with great confidence, and I could tell that Lance was comfortable with the arrangements. I decided that I needed to trust that.

“I wish one of us could...wait nearby. In case you need backup,” I muttered, still unhappy about the whole thing.

Gawain shook his head. “None of us can be readily spared, it’s too risky, and we don’t want to involve anyone we don’t have to in the details of the plan.”

“I  _ know  _ that,” I snapped, “It doesn’t mean I  _ like  _ it.”

“I don’t like it either,” Arthur said, giving me a sympathetic look, “But it is what it is.”

I nodded grudgingly, a little embarrassed by my outburst, though I sensed distantly that Lancelot was warmly amused by it, something along the lines of  _ you’re adorable when your protective _ . I squinted at him suspiciously as the conversation continued and he flashed me the smallest little half smile that made my heart do funny things. I had not seen Lancelot smile like that in a long time - a daring, troublemaker’s smile that was more in the eyes than the mouth. 

I was happy for more than one reason when the strategy session finally wrapped up, everyone taking turns wishing Lancelot good luck in case they did not have a chance to speak privately again before he left to follow Ambrosius. Cei was his usual brusque self, but Gawain gave his old friend a hug that utterly belied the cyclic rumors that they were bitter rivals. Guinevere gave Lance a little kiss on the cheek, but put a gentle, comforting hand on my shoulder as she passed. 

As soon as we were alone, I caught Lance by the sides of the doublet and leaned up to kiss him hard. “You bastard,” I muttered into his mouth, “You’re actually bloody looking forward to this!”

“It’s been a long time since I undertook a mission as involved as this. I’m  _ good  _ at it. I know it’s not going to be fun, but…” he shrugged helplessly, then looked at me more closely. “What?”

“That smile earlier. Damn you I haven’t seen you smile like that since I was a squire. I’d no idea how attractive I would find it now.”

“You didn’t find it attractive then?” He was amused, but also genuinely curious.

“Not like this I didn’t!” I exclaimed, and kissed him again to make my point. It was a rough, possessive kiss that ended with his back against a wall and my hands in inappropriate places on his body. I may have had a crush on Lance for ages, but I had not really seriously  _ wanted _ him until far more recently - and gods did I ever want him now. I wanted to make him mine before I had to let him leave. 

Lance, picking up on my train of thought, moaned. “Yes. Gods, yes. Please.” And wasn’t  _ that  _ a pleasant surprise, I thought with a smile, spinning him around and pushing him back toward the bed. Lance almost never begged, especially not for this, so to hear it now did things to me. 

Lance let me push him down onto his back - and my self control crumbled. It was partly the knowledge that he was  _ allowing  _ this, wanting it just as much as me, and partly the desperation from knowing that he would be gone soon. I reached for the laces on his breeches, and he took the hint, undoing the clasps on his doublet. We undressed each other down to our shirts as quickly as possible, then I decided that that was sufficient, and reached for the oil on the nightstand. Lance made to roll over, but I pinned him down with a look and a hand on his chest. I felt as much as heard him suck in a sharp breath at that, and certainly could not miss the way desire spiked through him. He was enjoying my possessiveness, and I grinned as I thought how much more he would be enjoying it in a minute. Lance actually laughed a little at that. 

****

I was very much enjoying Gareth’s possessiveness tonight, something between playful and utterly desperate. But the slight lightheartedness didn’t keep my stomach from twisting into knots when I realized he was going to keep me on my back for what I knew was coming next. It wasn’t that I didn’t want it (I very much did) it was just that there was something so intensely vulnerable about doing it this way that it took my breath away every time.

I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the sensation of Gareth’s hands on my legs, and then his fingers inside me. I squirmed a little at the feeling, torn between discomfort and simply wanting  _ more _ . I got the latter, Gareth pressing inexorably into my body, his grip on my hips hard enough to bruise. I reached for him blindly, wanting him closer. He obligingly leaned down to press a hard, devastating kiss against my mouth. And then I was lost in the feeling of it, of Gareth making me his own one last time before he had to let me leave for who knew how long. 

The pleasure built until it was almost painful, our bond only making it better, almost overwhelming. I could almost feel what he was feeling, the power and love and protectiveness he felt when he did this to me. I whimpered and bit my lip on the words I wanted to say - _ more  _ and  _ please  _ and  _ gods I’m so close _ . 

“Open your eyes,” Gareth murmured just when I was sure I couldn’t take any more. I did, because at that point it would not have occured to me not to do what he asked - anything he asked. Our gazes met and I came with a gasp and a little cry, pulling Gareth over the edge with me.  

We lay tangled up for a long time after that before Gareth groaned and pulled himself together enough to clean us up. I let him, not moving a muscle, enjoying the calm lassitude in my muscles for as long as I could since I would be last time for a long while that I would be able to truly relax. Gareth pulled the blankets up over us, and laid down with his head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him a little closer. 

“I’m going to miss you,” he whispered, though I would have known it even if he hadn’t said it. 

“I’m going to miss you too,” I murmured, kissing his hair lightly, “But for now just rest and enjoy this.”

He hummed his agreement, already mostly asleep, and I drifted off with a smile on my face despite everything. 

 

We woke together the next morning and shared a few blissful minutes just holding each other, but Gareth was soon pulled away to attend the King, and I barely saw him again before I left that evening. Perhaps it seemed a bit cruel, but it was for the best; neither of us wanted to endure another goodbye. I  _ did  _ corner Arthur in his study. We didn’t talk much, other than a few words of encouragement on both of our parts. He just gave me a warm hug and let me lean on his strength for a moment. It was nice, but I didn’t linger, already feeling myself putting some mental distance between  _ this  _ life and the one I was going to be pretending for Ambrosius. I passed Gareth on the way out and smiled at him again, the same roguish smile that he had seemed to enjoy so much the night before. 

Ambrosius’ camp was easy enough to locate - after all, he was hardly hiding. I was a little surprised that he wasn’t staying at an inn, but it did make my job significantly more straightforward. His guards gave me startled nd wary looks as I rode up, but Ambrosius saw me and had the nerve to  _ smirk _ . “Ah, I wondered if you would be...joining us. You got here sooner than I expected.”

“Yes, well, didn’t have many people to bid farewell to,” I replied dryly, my feet hitting the ground as I dismounted. 

“Did you tell anyone where you were going?” Ambrosius asked, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. If he believed no one knew where I was, it put me in more danger, but…

I grimaced. “Didn’t exactly think it would be smart to tell them what I was up to. No, I just left. Someone will notice eventually that I’m gone.” I allowed my voice to become bitter, my lip curling a little. And Ambrosius  _ grinned _ . I swallowed my discomfort and raised my chin, letting my pride show. Everyone was watching us, and I knew a first impression was vital to making this work, to making it believable.  _ Well, let them look, _ I thought. I’d traded out Arthur’s red and my usual black for my  _ own  _ colors - not the light blue, pale grey, and white of my lands here in Britain, but my  _ family  _ colors from Gaul. My  _ kingdom’s  _ colors: midnight blue, black and silver. I wore these colors so rarely that they made me feel like a different person, which was actually useful to my current purpose, and I had chosen them to reinforce the point I had made to Ambrosius about the fact that I had an identity outside of my place at Arthur’s Court. My own emblem - Gaul’s emblem - a snarling wolf’s head, sat proudly on my breast, picked out in silver thread on fine blue wool. I squared my shoulders, stood a little straighter, and let my eyes travel around the camp. I was pleased by how many people quickly glanced away when I met their gaz. It was eerily quiet for a moment, then Ambrosius broke the mood by clapping me on the arm and saying loudly, “Well, their loss is our gain. Come, dine with me.” 

It was an awkward meal, but not unbearably so, and Ambrosius didn’t keep me terribly late. Nonetheless, I decided that it wasn’t worth the effort to pitch a tent, so I fetched my bedroll and heavy cloak and settled down. The good spots by the fires were all taken, but I figured I could survive a little chill for the night. 

I regretted that decision come morning. The cold and damp had seeped into my bones overnight and I woke stiff and aching. I was limping a little as I re-saddled Equinox, and I did not think it was my imagination that several of Ambrosius’ guards snickered. Oh, it was going to be a long few weeks in this household…

Ambrosius had me ride beside him as we continued on our way, and began to pick my brain about life in Camelot, and about the inner workings of the army. I’m sure he thought that he was being subtle, but I could see right through it. I played along, keeping up my persona of embittered old soldier and dropped tidbits of information into the wandering conversation. Some of that information was real, some exaggerated or twisted from the truth. It was tiring, but not particularly challenging. 

Nothing Ambrosius said or asked caught me off guard until we sat down to lunch at an inn and he looked at me and said in his grating, falsely polite tone, “I suppose I should have asked this earlier, but how do you prefer to be called? As you reminded me, you are  _ technically _ royalty…”

I hastily took a drink to give myself a moment to consider my answer. “If I wanted to be royalty, I’d go back to Gaul,” I informed him. 

“I don’t suppose you still see yourself as a Knight?”

I grimaced impulsively and decided to let that stand as my answer - Ambrosius could make of it what he would. “I do have land here in Britain, you know,” I said after a moment, “I’m a lord here, technically.” 

“Lord Lancelot it is, then,” Ambrosius said, raising his glass in a little salute. Unaccountably, I felt as if I had passed a test of some sort. 

*  * *  *

I had always assumed there was a certain level of antipathy toward me among some segments of the Court and knighthood. This wasn’t a poor assumption; it was based on how I was treated by those who looked down on my low birth and resented my unusually quick rise through the ranks to become first a Knight of the Round Table and then Queen’s Champion. But whatever antipathy had existed before was nothing in comparison to the outright animosity directed my way the day after Lancelot left once it became clear that he was indeed gone. 

The glares and muttering weighed on me all morning, and I was almost relieved when Bors cornered me before supper. He actually physically pushed me up against a wall outside the Royal Suite. “What the fuck, you little-” he hissed, and presumably only the presence of the guards by the door kept him from calling me the epithet that was clearly on his lips. “What the  _ actual  _ fuck?” he repeated, “I thought you to where close; why the hell would you - you...  _ drive  _ him away like that? If this is some sort of fucking- fucking  _ spat  _ I swear to  _ God- _ ” Bors abruptly fell silently, glaring murderously at me. 

I glanced down at where his large hand pressed against my breastbone, pushing me into the wall, then looked up at him, one eyebrow raised pointedly. “Don’t touch me,” I said, the words soft but so clearly enunciated that it turned them into a threat. Bors actually backed up a step, and I moved away from the wall. I was just considering what to say next when the King himself appeared in the doorway. 

“Ah, Gareth, I was wondering where-” he stopped as he noted the tension between Bors and I, and sighed. “What’s wrong?” 

Bors turned to the King. “I was just asking Gareth he if he knew why Lancelot left so abruptly.” 

Arthur looked between us for a moment, then opened the door wider. “Both of you, come in.” 

When the door closed behind us, the King turned to me and said wryly, “I’m not sure if I should be pleased or concerned that that little ruse has worked so well. And clearly we’re going to have to tell at least most of the Knights what is really going on. Why don’t we start by telling Bors so that he stops looking at you like he’s going to murder you in your sleep.” 

I laughed, but it wasn’t an amused sound.

“Tell me  _ what _ ?” demanded Bors, crossing his arms grumpily over his chest. 

I turned to him and said perfunctory, “Lance is with Ambrosius, spying for us. The only way to make that work was to make sure that Ambrosius had reason to believe that Lance would actually lave Arthur.” While Bors processed that, I turned back to the King. “I don’t think we should tell anyone that we don’t absolutely have to. We know Ambrosius probably has spies here, and they need to see the dissent caused by me usurping Lance’s place - otherwise Ambrosius may get suspicious, and that would put Lance in more danger.” 

Arthur’s lips thinned the way they did when he was especially displeased with something, but he agreed with me. 

Meanwhile, Bors had collected himself enough to mutter, “Christ, do we think Ambrosius is about to start a war?”

“Yes. Possibly with Mark, possibly with us,” said Arthur, “His soldiers talk a lot but his inner circle is very closed. He expressed interest in Lance and we decided to take advantage of that. We  _ need  _ to know if he’s going to start a civil war because I am damn well going to be ready for it.” 

“Of course,” agreed Bors. Then, under his breath, “ _ Shit _ .” 

*  * *  *

Ambrosius may have been content to give me the respect of that title, but he made no effort to address the way his men treated me. What began as sideways looks and the occasional snickering behind my back rapidly escalated as we travelled. What began as sideways looks and the occasional snickering behind my back escalated. I managed to ignore it until the day before we reached Ambrosius’ home. It wasn’t just a matter of my patience wearing thin, or the taunts and jibes of my travelling companions becoming more overt, though both of those things were true. No, the tipping point was my realization that I needed to establish my standing here and react believably as the man I was pretending to be. So when one of the officers made a remark within my earshot, I finally turned to confront him. “Sorry, what was that?” I asked, carefully  _ not  _ letting my hand drop to my sword. The officer glanced at his two companions, then faced me. 

“I said I still don’t know why the fuck you’re here.”

“Because,” I said slowly, as if speaking to a young and particularly dense child, “I know more about what you’re facing than you could ever hope to. Also,” and here my voice hardened, “That’s  _ not  _ what you said.”

The officer shifted uncomfortably for a moment, then spat out, “You know what, you’re right. I said it’s kind of an embarrassment having you around considering that you’ve clearly lost a step - or several.” That still wasn’t quite what he’d said initially - what he’d said was considerably cruder - but the idea was the same so I let it slide. 

“You think I’ve lost a step?”

“I saw that puny little protege of yours knock you on your ass,” he retorted, laughing. Several the others joined him, and our little confrontation beginning to draw a crowd. Well, good, I thought. I wanted a crowd for what was going to happen next. 

I allowed myself to smile slowly, a deceptively mild but humorless expression. “Oh, and you think you could do the same?”

“Well…” he looked uncertain, but I pressed on, letting my hand fall to the hilt of my sword. 

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

We had the attention of the entire camp now, and there was no way he could back out without losing face. He clearly realized this, and didn’t look terribly happy about it. I glanced over to where Ambrosius was standing, wondering if he would put a stop to it; Arthur would  _ never  _ allow fighting like this, but Ambrosius was a very different man. I took my eyes off of the officer for only a heartbeat, but he took advantage of it. I caught his movement in my peripheral vision and spun out of the way on a combination of instinct and decades of training. I felt more than saw a blade flash past my shoulder, and drew my own sword, turning to face my opponent. 

I had every intention of winning this fight and doing so quickly, so I waited for a moment until the officer threw himself at me again, and I stepped easily out of the way, disarming him simultaneously. Then I gave him a sharp shove in the back with my free hand as his momentum carried him past me, and he tumbled to the muddy ground. There was a moment of surprised silence, then a smattering of laughter and murmuring broke out. I turned to face the crowd, scowled, and asked, “Alright, who’s next?” A few people chuckled and elbowed each other, but then they began to realize I that I was serious, and silence fell. “ _ Well _ ?” Still no response, and my temper broke. I was sick of these people and their condescension; I missed Gareth and Arthur and Camelot; and I was itching for a fight. “Come on,” I goaded, “If you think that I’m  _ old  _ and  _ irrelevant _ then why the hell are you all so fucking  _ scared  _ to fight me?”

That did it. Captain Meuric, Ambrosius’ rugged second in command, stepped forward. Oh, this was  _ perfect _ . The others naturally formed a circle around us, and we squared off. I was fighting unarmored and without a shield, but my veins rang sang with excitement and I was utterly unafraid. 

Meuric proved to be faster than I expected, but I had no trouble countering the flurry of attacks that he launched. I danced sideways, turning him until his back was to the part of the circle where his lieutenant stood, then launched an attack of my own, driving him back several steps. I feinted with a lunge and Meuric leaned back, off balance, just as I hoped he would. I kicked him hard in the gut, knocking him backward into the arms of his lieutenant. I backed up a few steps, lowering my sword and looking around. “Who else?” I barely even made it a question. I wasn’t even breathing hard, and I was sincerely hoping that at at least one more person would take up the challenge. But no one did. 

When the silence had dragged on for long enough to be deeply uncomfortable, Ambrosius spoke up from the back: “Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I trust that we can all at least pretend to get along?” It was framed as a question but clearly wasn’t. I shrugged and pointedly sheathed by sword. I didn’t need it even if someone decided to challenge me again. My two opponents were still dusting themselves off. No one spoke and Ambrosius went on placidly, “Meuric, Lancelot, come to my tent. I just received a message that I would like to discuss with you both.”

Meuric and I glanced at each other, somewhat awkwardly, then followed Ambrosius one after the other. Meuric caught up with me just before we reached the tent. I braced myself for his anger, but to my shock he gave me a crooked smile and offered his hand. “I’ve not had my ass kicked like that in a good long time. I’m very glad you’re on our side, Lancelot, and I hope we can train together sometimes.” 

I took his hand, tentatively at first but then more confidently, and shook it firmly. “I’d like that too. And I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your men. I was just...trying to make a point.”

“Well, you certainly made it, I think.” He sounded somewhat bitter, but not unduly so, and I thought his earlier comments were sincere. It wasn’t until I had followed him into the tent that it occured to me to be discomfited by the fact that they were  _ happy to have me.  _ That was the point, obviously, but the part of me that was profoundly loyal to Arthur cringed a bit at being accepted into a new command. I shrugged it off and focused on the task at hand. 

Ambrosius was standing at his folding command table, looking at a piece of parchment in his hand. Without acknowledging our slightly delayed appearance, he said, “I just received this message saying that an entire division of my cousin’s army is moving to the west of Camelot.” 

Meuric and I glanced at each other, Meuric scowling slightly. I waited a few heartbeats so I wouldn’t seem over-eager, then said, “It’s for exercises - training, that is.” Ambrosius gave me a pointedly blank look so I explained, “Arthur insists that each division does extensive training each year - or at most every other year. Usually it’s two divisions together, participating in war games. I think only one division hasn’t done it yet this year, but it’s quite possible that the Marshall might pull some men from elsewhere to participate as well…”

“Elsewhere?” Ambrosius prompted.

“Oh gods I don’t know,” I said, pretending to consider briefly, “Probably parts of the border deemed quiet? We only - I mean, there aren’t many garrisons except at the border, so options are limited.”

Ambrosius eyed me for a moment and I started back, willing him to see the honesty of those words. The best lies were based on a kernel of truth, and there was more than a kernel in what I had just said. After a tense moment, Ambrosius nodded and set the note aside. But then, in a deceptively casual voice, he asked, “What’s the chance that these training exercises are cover for positioning the army to be able to counter any plans I may have? Do you think Arthur has suspicions about me?”

I laughed to cover my nerves.  _ This  _ was important. But the laugh was genuine, if dark. “Suspicions? Gods yes. He didn’t make himself King and keep himself King this long by being unduly trusting - and to be fair, you’ve given him reasons in the past to be suspicious of you. But I don’t think he has any confirmation of anything specific - hells,  _ I  _ don’t have confirmation of anything specific and I’ve been traveling with you for nearly a week.  As to whether or not the training might be a cover? I mean...nothing’s impossible, but I’d call it highly unlikely. Those exercises have been planned for weeks if not months - they have to be for logistical reasons.” It was a bit of a risk to say that since it wasn’t true, but I wagered it was unlikely that he would be able to prove anything unless he had a  _ very  _ highly placed source near Sir Cei or the Marshall. 

Ambrosius nodded slowly and I sensed that he more or less believed me. Meuric certainly seemed to buy it, nodding along with my analysis, and I began to wonder if perhaps I had discovered an unexpected ally. If so, it might make this marginally easier - and marginally more tolerable. 

Nonetheless, I felt terribly alone as I laid down to sleep that night, but I resisted the urge to reach out to Gareth. I knew I was too far away, and focusing on the bond just made the distance feel worse.  _ Soon  _ I tried to tell myself,  _ I’ll see him again soon _ . 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say 'hi' on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gwyndulac) (I'm GwynDuLac there too)!


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